U1RKAN  Y 

OK  TIIK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


JAN  1895 

^Accessions  No.jTf  $  J/  -        CA7S5  M). 


/%y    ^NU^^2^' 


2?V%R 


Al/7 


0*0 


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THE  LAND  BY 

THE      SUNSET      SEA 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  LAND  BY 

THE  SUNSET  SEA 

AND 
OTHER    POEMS, 

BY 

"HANNAH  B.  GAGE/' 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 
PHILIP  I.  FIGEL,  PUBLISHER, 

1884. 


PRINTED  BY 

UPTON    BROS.,  429   MONTGOMERY  STREET, 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL. 


To  THE  MANY  KIND  FRIENDS  WHO  HAVE  ENCOUR 
AGED  MY  EARLIEST  EFFORTS  THIS  VOLUME  OF  MY 
COLLECTED  POEMS  IS  GRATEFULLY  INSCRIBED. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Proem,       .........  i 

The  Land  by  the  Sunset  Sea,          ....  j 

Retrospection, 8 

A  Thought,    ........  a 

Tivo  Views  of  Life, 12 

The  Happy  Medium,     ......  i^ 

A  Kiss, 7j- 

A  Picture,      ......  16 

The  Kiss, I7 

Only  a  Broken  Rosebud, /£ 

Skating,     .......  20 

Written  on  the  Fly-leaf  of  My  Diary,  21 

Unspoken  Thoughts,          .         .         .         .  23 

"Half -Mast," 25 

A  Face,      .........  27 


PAGE 

Kisses,        .  •     28 

Life,       ...  29 

A  Friend  in  Need,     .  •    31 

The  Eagle,     .         .  32 

James  A.  Garfield,    .  •     33 

Nan,      .         .  34 

Winding  up  Time,  •     3& 

Birdie,   .....  3s 

Kris  Kringle,    .         .  -39 

Christmas  Eve,      .  43 

Christmas,          .  •     45 

New  Years  Eve,    .  47 

My  Caller,         .  -49 

New  Year's  Callers,      .  51 

Only  Friends,  •    54 

Waiting  for  Santa  Claus,  58 

Baby  Wisdom,           .  •     65 

I979,       .  66 

Retribution,        .         .  -73 

Jack  Thornton' s  Mistake,       .         .  #7 


UNIVERSITY 


PROEM. 

Dear  Reader: — 

'Tis  the  usual  thing  in  prefaces,  to  shiver 
In  dread  suspense,  before  the  world,  the  young  heart  all 

aquiver 
With  dire  fears  of  this  or  that,  of  what  the  world  will 

mutter, 

Of  what  the  wisest  men  will  say,  or  what  the  critics  utter — 
It  is  the  usual  thing,  I  say,  to  kneel,  in  mortal  terror, 
And  supplicate  the  reading  minds  to  pardon  every  error. 
Excuse  me,  reader  mine,  if  I  prefer  to  upright  stand, 
Or  fail  to  bend  the  suppliant's  knee  to  any  in  the  land. 
If  I  present  these  waifs  of  mine,  without  a  shake  or  shud 
der, 
And  launch   my  shallop  on  the  deep,  without  an  oar  or 

rudder. 
I've  known  full  many  writers  who  have  sent  their  crafts 

adrifting 
Adown  the  ''rapid  river,"   while  their  eyes  are  humbly 

lifting 

Unto  grim  Talus,  striding  round  that  dreaded  isle  of  story 
Where  dwells  the  fearful  Minotaur — the  critics  grim  and 

hoary, 


But  did  their  pleadings  ever  make  the  heavy  club  fall 
lighter, 

Or  soothe  his  anger  e'er  a  jot,  or  make  their  records  whiter? 

No!  no!  if  Fame  is  to  be  ours,  it  comes  all  uninvited 

And  all  our  coaxing  is   in   vain — for   often,    when   most 
slighted, 

We  suddenly  awake  to  find  the  dame  has  made  us  noted 

Though  we  have  never  suppliant  been,  nor  made  our 
selves  devoted. 

And  so  I  cut  adrift  my  craft,  and  send  it  o'er  the  main, 

Contented,  if,  in  time,  it  should  the  hoped  for  landing  gain. 

Good  by,  my  little  shallop,  you  must  your  own  battle  wage. 

Farewell,  my  reader,  I  am  yours, 

Most  truly, 

HANNAH  GAGE. 


THE  LAND  BY  THE  SUNSET  SEA. 

IN  the  country  far  to  westward,  in  the  land  of  golden 
fame, 
Where  the  warm  hearts  melt  the  ice  and  the  snows  are  but 

a  name. 

There  arose  a  wondrous  power,  and  it  lighted  all  the  world, 
Till  the  banners  of  the  Union,  in  its  honor,  were  unfurled. 
From  the  East,  and  North,  and  Southward  poured  the 

eager,  young  and  old, 
To  bow  down  before  this  power — for  this  monarch's  name 

was  Gold. 

Hand  in  hand,  the  man  of  labor  and  the  man  to  manor  born, 
Men  whose  suns  were  almost  setting,  youth  in  freshest 

hope  of  morn, 

Husbands,  fathers,  brothers,  lovers, sought  that  far-off  "sun 
set  land," 
Where  the  whispering  Pacific  kissed  the  burning  golden 

sands. 
Went,  with  hearts  elate  with  promise,  brains  with  visions 

great  aflame, 

Sure  of  gaining  untold  riches  in  this  golden  land  of  fame. 
Farewell  kisses  on  the  faces  that  to  part  with  left  a  pain 
In  the  heart,  and  moistened  lashes;  but  the  fever  in  the  veins 


4  THE    LAND     BY    THE    SUNSET    SEA. 

Dried  the  tears,  and  burned  the  brighter  for  the  dear  ones 

left  behind, 
While,   through  bearded  lips  there  fluttered   half-formed 

prayers  upon  the  wind. 
But  they  found  that  infant  country  overgrown  with  forests 

bold; 
Found  that  wealth  meant  honest  labor,  for  the  eager  young 

and  old. 
Found  no  sceptred  monarch  ruling  all  the  country  miles 

around ; 
Found  that  but  to  kneel  before  him,  they  must  dig  beneath 

the  ground. 
But,  unconquered  and  undaunted,  fell  they  to  with  lusty 

will- 
Stroke  of  ax  and  sound  of  sawing  in  the  forest  grand— until 
All  those  giants  who  for  ages  had  withstood  the  tempests 

blast. 
With  a  crash  of  parting  branches,  at  their  feet  lay  prone  at 

last. 
Then  they  built  their  rough  log  cabins   from   the  fallen 

giants'  limbs. 
Faces    tanned    and    weather-beaten,    seen    'neath    broad 

sombrero  brims, 
"  Hearts  of  oak  and  and  nerves  of  sinew,"  purpose  firm 

and  ready  hand 

Ever  to  a  brother  offered  in  this  golden  "sunset  land." 
But,  when  work  of  day  was  ended,  and  around  their  rude 

hearth  fires, 


THE    LAND     BY    THE    SUNSET    SEA.  5 

Groups  of  tired  men  were  clustered  —  husbands,  brothers, 

lovers,  sires — 
Then,  amid  a  sacred  silence,  men  who  had  not  wept  for 

years, 
Pulled  their  hats  low  down  to  cover  manly  eyes  bedimmed 

with  tears; 
And  the  distant    dear   ones,   waiting-,   watching,   hoping, 

praying  there, 
Might  have  felt,  across   the   ocean,  a  low-spoken,  'fervent 

prayer ; 
Might    have   felt   that,  though    between   them    rolled   an 

ocean  wild  and  wide, 
Love  could  span  the  weary  distance,  love  could  laugh  at 

wind  and  tide. 
Some  with   life  and  hope  refulgent,   sought  this  land  of 

promise  fair, 
But,  away  from  home  and  kindred,  to  lay  down  their  burden 

there. 
With  no  soothing  hand  of  woman  on  the  aching  forehead 

lain, 
When  the  heart  was   tired  and  homesick  and  the  head 

was  hot  with  pain. 
Only   bearded   faces  gathered   round  their  weary,  dying 

mate 
Till  he  passed  away,  in  silence,  through  an  unseen  "Golden 

Gate. ' ' 

Rough  the  times  and  rough  the  justice,  meted  out  to  er 
ring  man; 


6  THE    LAND     RV    THE    SUNSET    SEA. 

Rough  the  life  and  rough  the  country;  rough  the  race  that 

many  ran ; 
Rough  the  ways  and  rough  the  people;  rough,  alas!  the 

morals,  too; 
Rough  the  voices,  rough  the  language  of  this  pioneering 

crew — 
Yet  this  land  of  golden  promise  grew  and  prospered,  till, 

where  stood 
Huts  and  cabins  in  the  clearings  made  through  forest  land 

and  wood 

Cities  rose,  in  size  and  power,  soon  to  take  their  stand  beside 
Elder  sisters  o'er  the  ocean,  over  on  the  eastern  side. 
Now,   throughout  our  glorious  nation  she  can  claim    an 

honored  place; 
Sister  States,  throughout  the  Union,  know  and  recognize 

her  face. 
She  can  call  each  elder  ''sister,"  claim  a  younger  kindred's 

stand, 
In  the  Union,  proud  and  happy,  can  this  glorious  ''sunset 

land." 
We,  her  sons,  are  proud  to  call  her  "Mother  "-proud  to 

muster  here, 

On  her  wedding  day.     Oh,  Mother!  turn  to  us  thy  listen 
ing  ear; 

Hear  the  praises  that  thy  children  o'er  thy  head  will  grate 
ful  sing. 
Turn  thy  loving  eyes  upon  us,   while  thy  wedding  bells 

shall  ring. 


THE    LAND    BY    THE    SUNSET    SEA.  7 

Though  the  ocean  wild  shall  part  us,  though  the  wide  world 

lay  between. 
Still  our  hearts  will  mock  at  distance;  still  we'll  keep  thy 

memory  green. 
Still  thy  love  will  be  our  mentor,  though  the  ceaseless  ages 

roll, 
Mother,  sacred,   sacred  Mother!  Alma  mater  of  our  soul! 


RETROSPECTION-. 


RETROSPECTION. 

LOOKING  back  o'er  the  sinuous  ways: 
Looking-  back  at  the  yesterdays, 
What  does  it  show  us  ?     Fair  or  sad  ? 
Does  it  bring  the  tears,  or  the  heart-leaps  glad  ? 
Looking  back  at  the  days  agone — 
Much  to  gladden — ah!  much  to  mourn! 
Part  the  curtains  of  Mem'ry's  Hall, 
Down  the  dim  vista  voices  call. 
Voices  of  dear  ones,  '  'gone  before  ' ' 
Sweeter  than  aught  in  present  lore. 
Curtained  alcoves,  on  either  side, 
The  dim,  old  Hall  in  parts  divide. 
Curtains  of  every  kind  and  hue 
Conceal  their  mem'rys,  old  and  new. 
Here  it  is  crimson — and  behind, 
Warm  hearts;  true  loves;  kind  words  enshrined 
Golden  and  blue — pause  ye  awhile — 
Soft!  'Tis  only  an  infant's  smile. 
Here  are  a  group  of  childhood's  hours; 
And  here  a  bunch  of  faded  flowers; 
A  sister's  love;  a  mother's  face; 
A  smile;  a  look;  a  last  embrace; 


RETROSPECTION. 

A  broken  fan;  a  lock  of  hair; 
A  kiss;  a  promise  treasured  there. 
A  sable  pall  falls  gloomy,  now 
It  hides,  alas!  a  broken  vow. 
And  here  are  smiles;  and  here  are  tears; 
The  fancied  cares  of  childhood's  years; 
Those  snowy  folds  conceal  from  view 
Two  sweet,  sad  eyes,  of  Heaven's  blue. 
A  cheery  laugh,  that  broke  the  spell — 
But  that  was  years  ago — ah!  well! — 
And,  here  and  there,  a  friendly  nod; 
A  face  now  resting  'neath  the  sod; 
And  smiles;  and  tears;  and  words  of  cheer; 
And  long  lost  faces,  treasured  dear, 
Peep  out,  and  mystic  voices  call 
Adown  dear  mem'ry's  hallowed  Hall. 
And  last,  this  alcove,  draped  in  blue, 
Its  color  signifying  true — 
Conceals  a  Friendship,  firm  and  tried, 
Prized  higher  than  all  else  beside — 
'Twas  made  in  Sunshine,  tried  in  storm — 
The  heart  that  holds  it  is  large  and  warm. 
When  Fortune's  bubble,  great  and  fair, 
Burst,  and  left  naught  but  vaporous  air; 
And  so-called  '  'friends' '  had  fled,  aghast 
At  the  woeful  wreck  of  Failure's  blast, 
'Twas  then  the  first,  firm  plank  was  laid, 
Of  this  blue  alcove — sacred  made 


IO  RETROSPECTION. 

To  Friendship — and  though  blasts  may  rock 
This  frame — it  can  sustain  the  shock. 
It  fears  no  fate,  while  firm  and  true, 
Stands  Friendship,  in  this  alcove  blue. 
"Only  &  friend!"  Aye,  only — true! 
But  enough  to  pass  one  safely  through — 
And  blest,  indeed,  if  in  Mem'ry's  store 
You've  only  a  friended,  nothing  more. 


A    THOUGHT.  II 


A  THOUGHT, 

ALL  day  long  in  my  mind  has  lingered 
A  sweet,  sad  thought  that  I  could  not  name 
All  day  long  has  the  spirits  fingered 
A  golden  harp  as  they  went  and  came 
Went  and  came,  and  the  harp  strings  throbbing, 
Low  and  sad  as  an  angel  sobbing, 
Told  the  thought  that  I  could  not  name — 
Softly  sung  what  I  could  not  name. 

Vainly  reaching,  I  tried  to  clasp  it 
Clasp  the  harp  with  its  golden  strings, 
Tried  in  my  rude,  world  hands  to  grasp  it, 
That  I  might  tell  of  the  beautiful  things 
My  heart  could  sing,  but  my  lips  not  utter, 
Timed  to  the  murmur  of  rippling  water, 
But  they  denied  me  those  golden  strings, 
Coldy  refused  me  those  golden  strings. 

That  is  why,  though  my  heart  is  singing, 
I  cannot  tell  what  I  think  or  feel, 
That  is  why  with  the  music  ringing 
Through  my  brain,  I  but  dumbly  kneel, 
Kneel  to  the  beautiful  thought  held  captive, 
'Tween  the  walls  of  this  brain  a  captive 
Striving  to  tell  what  I  think  or  feel, 
Vainly  striving  to  tell  what  I  feel. 


12  TWO    VIEWS    OF    LIFE. 


TWO  VIEWS  OF  LIFE. 
The  Cynic  s. 

TOILING  along  o'er  the  dusty  road, 
Toiling  along  till  we're  worn,  and  old 
Always  the  weight  of  a  heavy  load, 
Necessity  urging  us  on  like  a  goad. 

Toiling  and  striving,  always  the  same, 
Whether  for  bread,  for  gold  or  for  fame, 
Friendship's  a  mockery,  love  but  a  name, 
Burning  out  life  with  its  lurid  flame. 

Some  are  born  fortunate — plainly  not  I, 
Hopes,  aspirations,  end  in  a  sigh. 
No  art  or  luring  can  coax  Fortune  nigh  ; 
Why  should  I  longer  live  ?     Far  better  die. 

Life's  not  worth  living — better  'twould  be 
That  I  should  end  it;  plunge  in  the  sea! 
Anywhere !  so  from  this  world  to  be  free. 
Free  to  lie  down  in  Eternity. 
The   Worker  s. 

Is  the  road  dusty  ?  do  we  grow  old  ? 

Are  we  all  grovelling  for  silver  and  gold  ? 

Are  none  of  us  kindly,  all  of  us  cold? 

Is  everyone's  heart  to  be  bartered  and  sold  ? 


TWO    VIEWS    OF    LIFE. 

Is  love  a  mockery  ?  have  we  no  friend  ? 
Must  we  strive  singly  on  to  the  end  ? 
Is  no  one  trying  his  wrong  ways  to  mend  ? 
No  one  contented  ?  hearts  made  but  to  rend  ? 

Is  life  a  failure  for  those  who  try  ? 

Does  no  one  hear  the  heart's  anguished  cry? 

Is  death  a  Lethe  ?  is  there  no  tie 

Binding  to  earth,  though  'tis  clasped  with  a  sigh? 

Is  death  the  end  ?     Who  of  us  knows! 
Better  bear  bravely  this  life  and  its  woes  ; 
Judging  not,  taking  the  world  as  it  goes; 
Willing,  with  patience,  to  wait  for  the  close. 


14  THE    HAPPY    MEDIUM. 


THE  HAPPY  MEDIUM. 

I   LOVED,  and  the  world  was  all  peopled  with  angels, 
No  face  that  I  met  looked  unkind  unto  me. 
The  skies  were  all  bright,  and  the  sunlight  all  golden, 
The  gull's  call  was  music,  away  out  at  sea. 
The  robins  that  sang  in  the  tree-tops  were  joyous; 
The  lamb's  bleat,  the  dog's  bark,  each,  each  was  in  tune, 
I  extended  my  foes  all  a  hand  of  good  feeling. 
Oh,  the  darkest  of  night  seemed  the  highest  of  noon. 

I  hated — the  world  was  a  world  full  of  demons. 
No  face  there  but  harbored  a  treacherous  lie. 
The  skies  were  as  midnight — the  sun's  face  was  hidden, 
I  shrank  from  the  scream  of  the  seagulls  near  by. 
The  voice  of  the  robin  was  harsh  and  discordant, 
The  lamb's  bleat  was  savage — the  dog's  bark  a  howl. 
I  forgave  not  a  foe,  and  with  bent  head  and  angry 
I  passed  all  my  friends,  with  a  dark  sullen  scowl. 

But,  a  change  came,  a  subtile,  refining,  deep  influence 
Crept  into  my  life,  and  I  scarcely  knew  how. 
It  stayed  my  impatience,  and  softened  my  anger — 
Till  I  cannot,  and  will  not  dispense  with  it  now. 
A  cool  hand  was  laid  on  my  hot,  aching  forehead, 
It  smoothed  out  the  wrinkles,  and  bade  me  attend. 
I  caught  it,  and  kissed  it,  and  gratefully  murmured 
That  word,  of  all  words  the  most  beautiful — "Friend" 


A    KISS.  15 


A   KISS. 

A  HE  ART  looked  out  from  its  prison  bars, 
And  gazed,  enrapt,  on  its  chosen  mate — 
But  no  words  uttered  the  love  it  bore, 
And  it  sighed  in  pain  to  its  unkind  fate: 
"  Oh  fate,  most  cruel!     Why  give  me  love 
And  deny  me  the  power  to  make  it  known  ? 
Oh,  but  to  kneel  at  my  idol's  feet, 
And  pour  out  the  story  to  her  alone!  " 

A  heart  looked  back  in  the  tender  eyes; 
And  blushed,  not  knowing  the  reason  why, 
But  guessing  half — yet  were  words  too  bold 
To  tell  that  her  spirit  had  heard  the  cry. 
Two  hearts  estranged  for  a  missing  link, 
A  magic  clasp  to  the  golden  chain — 
Just  wanting  this  must  the  secret  still 
In  the  two  hearts'  casket,  held  fast,  remain? 

Two  hands  have  met  in  a  silent  clasp, 
And  eyes  met  eyes  in  a  long,  long  look — 
It  is  almost  told,  but  there's  something  yet, 
For  the  bridge  is  lacking  to  span  the  brook. 
Eyes  draw  nearer,  heart  beats  'gainst  heart, 
Unheeded,  unneeded  the  harsh  words  cold — 
From  heart  to  heart  has  its  secret  passed, 
In  the  first  long  kiss  it  was  fully  told. 


16  A    PICTURE. 


A   PICTURE. 

'r  I  MS  a  face  of  wonderful  beauty, 
JL        That  looks  from  its  walnut  frame, 

The  eyes  are  deeply,  tenderly  dark — 
Their  beauty  I  could  not  name. 

The  hair  is  short,  but  of  finest  silk. 

And  brown  as  a  chestnut  burr; 
And  its  curls  in  rings  around  the  head, 

Far  softer  than  softest  fur. 

The  lips,  just  parted,  reveal  behind 

Two  rows  of  whitest  teeth ; 
Oh!  who  can  look  in  that  pictured  face, 

And  doubt  of  the  heart  beneath  ? 

Aye!  the  face  of  a  trusted,  long-tried  friend! 

A  friend,  not  "  a  friend  for  a  day," 
Is  the  pictured  face  before  me — 

The  face  of  our  old  dog,  Tray. 


THE    KISS.  17 


THE    KISS. 

HE  kissed  me — yes;  you  need  not  smile, 
He  kissed  me,  and  I  felt,  the  while, 
A  thrill  of  joy,  exquisite  bliss, 
Creeping  o'er  me,  as  I  met  his  kiss. 

He  kissed  me,  and  'twas  all  I  knew, 
His  eyes;  twin  stars  of  truest  blue, 
That  shone  alone,  I  know,  for  me, 
Met  mine  in  loving  loyalty. 

He  kissed  me — thrilling  thro'  me  came 
A  feeling  that  I  could  not  name. 
That  dear,  dear  face  !     No  other  could 
Throughout  the  world,  be  half  so  good. 

His  kisses  and  his  words  are  more 
To  me,  than  all  the  world  before, 
Oh,  dearer  far  than  aught  or  other, 
My  treasure-trove — my  baby  brother! 


U&I7ERSIT7 


1 8  ONLY    A    BROKEN    ROSEBUD. 


ONLY   A   BROKEN    ROSEBUD. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud, 

Carelessly  thrown  aside; 
That  had  lost  its  way 
From  the  small  bouquet, 

That  hung-  by  my  lady's  side. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud, 

Dying-  neglected  there — 
In  the  throes  of  death, 
The  fragrant  breath 

Perfuming  the  heated  air. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud 

Snatched  from  the  cruel  tread. 
And  the  careless  beat 
Of  the  dancer's  feet, 

As  they  swept  above  its  head. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud, 

Clasped  to  a  broken  heart, 
Passionate  kisses, 
Wild  tears  and  wishes — 
"Forever  and  aye  apart !  " 


ONLY    A    BROKEN    ROSEBUD. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud 

Carefully  laid  away, 
In  its  faded  shroud, 
From  the  heat  and  crowd, 

Like  a  youthful  hope  grown  gray. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud 

Withered  before  its  time, 
Faded  and  gray, 
In  its  youthful  day, 

Yellowed  and  dead  in  its  prime. 

Only  a  broken  rosebud, 

Lost  from  the  rest,  unwept, 
But  to  me  'tis  frought 
With  a  hallowed  thought, 

And  with  sacred  sadness  kept. 


20  SKATING. 


SKATING. 

NIGHT  on  the  frozen  water,  and  from  a  haven  close 
Between  two  jutting  boulders,  the   curling   smoke 

arose. 

Fair  Luna's  car  a  casket  seemed,  filled  to  excess  with  stars, 
And,   glimmering  'tween  the  golden  sparks,    the  silvery 

moon  beam  bars. 
The  skaters,  muffled  to  the  eyes,   went  wheeling  graceful 

o'er 

The  glassy  surface,  here  and  there,  along  the  icy  floor, 
And,  over  all,  Queen  Luna's  Car  so  nobly  rode  the  blue — 
While  merry  laughter,  jest,  and  song  rung  loud  the  clear 

air  through. 

Ah,  skating  is  delightful  sport,  the  liveliest  and  the  best. 
In  sweet  concord  the  heavens  above — the  waters  'neath  at 

rest. 

Who  would  not  be  a  skater,  in  a  party  made  of  two? 
Spurning  the  ice-bound  river — "Some  other  one' '  and  you. 
If  you  have  never  tried  it,  take  my  advice,  and  go, 
When  in  the  haven  ice  has  formed,  you'  11  not  regret,  I  know. 
Go!  Go!  once  there,  and  I'll  engage  no  art  or  luring  then 
Can  coax  you  from  that  "others  "  side,  back  'mongst  your 

fellow  men. 


WRITTEN    ON    THE    FLY-LEAF    OF    MY    DIARY.          21 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  MY  DIARY. 

WITHIN  this  book,  my  curious  friend, 
Restrain  your  eyes  from  peeping. 
There's  nothing  here  I'd  care  to  lose, 
And  nothing  worth  your  keeping. 
Of  sage,  old  Wisdom's  wondrous  store, 
I've  borrowed  scanty  measure, 
'Tis  all  my  own — this  motley  lore, 
Culled  from  my  brain,  at  leisure. 
And  what  is  here  concerns  but  me — 
'Tis  no  one  else's  matter, 
If  "  Cousin  Jane  "  drops  in  to  tea, 
Or  Bridget  breaks  a  platter. 
'  Tis  mine,  and  mine  alone,  to  con 
These  pages,  closely  written, 
And  he  who  dares  to  look  upon 
Them,  may  be  sadly  bitten. 
If  eyes  will  scan  forbidden  ground, 
And  peep  between  these  pages, 
I  call  upon  the  country  round, 
And  all  the  wise,  old  sages — 
To  bear  me  out — that  if  they  find 
Opinions  plainly  stated, 


22         WRITTEN    ON    THE    FLY-LEAF    OF    MY    DIARY. 

And  close  the  book  with  bitter  mind, 
And  feelings  not  elated — 
'Tis  not  my  fault — I  warned  them  off, 
They  heeded  not  my  warning, 
They  took  no  notice,  but  to  scoff 
And  jeer  with  wilful  scorning. 
So  bid  the  tempest  go  his  way, 
My  friend,  you'll  not  regret  it— 
But,  there!  I've  done,  I've  said  my  say 
Be  sure  you  don't  forget  it. 


UNSPOKEN    THOUGHTS.  23 


UNSPOKEN  THOUGHTS. 

I  AM  sitting  alone  with  my  musings  to-night, 
In  the  room  where  I've  done  all  my  thinking — 
With  only  the  gleam  of  subdued  firelight — 
And  the  past  with  the  present  time  linking. 

Here  are  wont  to  assemble,  the  ghosts  of  the  past — 
Here  I'm  wont  to  live  over  once  more 
The  scenes  and  the  pleasures,  too  sweet  far  to  last, 
And  again  meet  the  lost  friends  of  yore. 

But  to-night  I'm  not  dreaming  of  days  that  are  dead 
But  of  thoughts  that  my  wild  heart  is  burning 
To  tell — but  alas !  they  will  never  be  said — 
Every  effort  they  long  have  been  spurning. 

Oh  !  to  call  up  the  spirits  and  bid  them  attend — 
To  bid  them  enchant  my  dull  pencil — 
A  magical  power  its  movements  to  lend, 
That  the  beautiful  thoughts  I  may  stencil. 


24  UNSPOKEN    THOUGHTS. 

Alas  !  there  are  songs  that  will  never  be  sung, 
Songs  too  sweet  for  the  cruel  world's  listening- 
There  are  silvery  bells  that  will  never  be  rung — 
Tho'  we  see  in  the  distance  their  glistening. 

Be  content  then,  oh  heart,  be  content  just  to  think 
Of  what  others  so  vainly  have  sought — 
Be  content  if  the  Muses  allow  you  to  drink 
From  the  crystaline  "  Fountain  of  Thought." 


11  HALF  -  MAST." 


"HALF-MAST." 

A  SHIP  swung  proud  in  the  lower  bay, 
Awaiting  her  master  to  sail  away; 
While  he  on  the  shore,  said  a  parting  word 
To  his  blue-eyed  love — but  the  wavelets  heard 
The  long,  long  kiss  on  her  fond  lips  pressed, 
While  the  ship  lay  tossing  in  wild  unrest 
And  only  the  wind,  as  it  whispered  low, 
And  the  waves'  retreat,  with  its  muffled  beat, 
Could  tell  of  the  brave  young  captain's  vow. 

The  ship  sailed  out  from  the  harbor  white, 

With  its  spread  of  sail,  in  a  glow  of  light; 

And  the  blue  eyes  watched  from  the  wave-beat  shore, 

As  the  good  ship  on  to  her  journey  bore. 

And  the  captain  back,  'neath  his  shading  hand, 

Gazed  to  the  fast  receding  land. 

Then  turned,  when  the  shore  grew  a  tiny  speck, 

To  his  duties  great,  and  the  captain's  mate 

Smiled  to  himself,  as  he  paced  the  deck. 

Time  rolled  on  and  the  day  had  come 

When  the  maiden  would  welcome  her  sailor  home. 

Into  the  harbor  the  good  ship  sailed. 

Home,  at  last  !      But  the  bright  cheek  pale.d— 


26  "  HALF  -  MAST." 

For  the  mate  was  pacing  the  deck  alone, 

And  when  to  its  bed  was  the  anchor  thrown, 

The  mate  alone  from  the  vessel  stepped, 

And  the  waves  were  sobbing,  in  anguish  throbbing, 

While  the  winds  a  mournful  monody  wept. 

The  flag,  aloft,  at  half  mast  hung. 

Through  the  air,  despairing,  a  wild  cry  rung. 

A  crowd  of  people,  a  wan  face  white, 

Two  blue  eyes  veiled  from  the  cold  world's  sight. 

Kind  arms  bore  her  back  home  again, 

Kind  hearts  softened  the  cruel  pain, 

Kind  words  soothingly  bade  her  brave 

The  cruel  dart  in  her  bleeding  heart, 

The  thought  of  the  far-off  ocean  grave. 

She  did  not  die — how  few  e'er  do  ? 

But  every  day  by  the  water  blue, 

She  watched  for  the  ship  and  its  captain  brave, 

And  wept  o'er  the  lonely  ocean  grave. 

One  day  they  found  her,  with  whitened  locks, 

Washed  by  the  water  among  the  rocks, 

And  they  knew  the  captain's  love,  at  last, 

Had  crossed  the  strand  to  the  far-off  land, 

And  entered  port,  with  her  flag  half-mast. 


A    FACE..  27 


A  FACE. 

THERE  's  a  face  that  comes  when  cares  oppress, 
And  my  life  is  weary  and  sad  ; 
It  comes  with  its  quiet  sympathy, 
And  makes  my  whole  heart  glad. 

It  is  not  a  comely  face,  but  more 

Is  seen  in  the  truthful  eyes  ; 
They  seem  to  read  my  heavy  heart^ 

And,  somehow,  my  spirits  rise. 

The  world  may  call  it  plain,  but  I, 

Who  have  learned  its  truth  to  read, 
Can  see  in  the  thoughtful,  earnest  face 

The  friend  that  is  a  friend  in  deed. 


28  KISSES. 


KISSES. 

I  ASKED  a  child  at  her  busy  play 
' '  Why  is  your  mama's  kiss  sweet,  my  child  ? ' ' 
Turning  an  instant  her  sport  away, 

' ' '  Cause  mama  loves  me, ' '  the  child  replied. 

I  asked  a  mother  with  whitening  hair, 
Mending  the  little  garments  torn, 

"Why  is  your  child's  kiss  sweet?  "the  fail- 
Face  lightened,  "  She  's  all  my  own.1' 

' '  Can  you  tell  me  why  a  kiss  is  sweet  ? ' ' 
I  asked  of  a  maiden  — ' '  tell  me,  pray  ? ' ' 

She  blushed,  refusing  my  eyes  to  meet, 
With  never  a  word  she  turned  away. 

What  is  it,  but  a  meeting  of  lips  ? 

Wherein  lies  the  ineffable  bliss, 
Like  to  the  nectar  the  Love-god  sips — 

All  in  an  instant,  born  in  a  kiss. 


LIFE.  29 


LIFE. 

LIFE  is  not  what  many  dub  it — 
All  a  fleeting  show  at  best. 
Fate  is  not  a  hardened  cynic, 
Our  best  efforts  to  arrest. 

Why  should  we,  but  toiling  mortals — 
Striving  for  the  topmost  round — 
Think  to  reach  it,  think  to  gain  it, 
Only  one  step  from  the  ground. 

Ah,  ye  haughty  !  ah,  ye  proud  hearts  ! 
Ye  must  learn  the  lesson  all — 
Up  to  Fame,  or  up  to  Glory, 
Hand  o'er  hand  we  all  must  crawl. 

Crawl,  aye,  crawl,  ye  sons  of  freedom, 
Naught  we  gain  without  some  tears, 
Many  tumbles,  many  bruises, 
Many  backward  steps,  and  fears. 

Should  you  fail  in  climbing  upward, 
Try  again, — 'tis  not  too  late — 
Do  not  grapple  with  the  goddess — 
No  one  ever  conquered  Fate. 


30  LIFE. 

If  it  is  to  be,  why  let  it — 
Bear  the  ill  winds  with  the  good  ; 
Do  not  shun  life's  jagged  corner — 
You  could  round  them  if  you  would. 

Come  what  will,  let's  meet  it  bravely 
With  our  hearts  on  triumph  set, 
And  we'll  soon  be  thinking  :     "Truly, 
Life  is  not  a  failure  yet. 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  31 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED. 

A  THIRSTY  flower,  parched  and  dry 
Lay  dying  in  the  grass — 
In  vain  for  water  did  it  sigh, 

Relief  came  not.     "Alas  ! 
And  must  I  thus  neglected  die  ?  " 

The  flower  murmuring  said, 
"And  must  I  thirsting,  parching  lie, 

Unwept,  uncared  for — dead  ?  " 
' '  Sweet  flower, ' '  spoke  a  liquid  voice, 

' '  Thou  shalt  not  perish  so. 
Lift  up  thy  head — revive  !  rejoice  ! 

Thy  bud  shall  live  to  blow. 
Quaff  thou  this  drop  of  dew,  new  born, 

And  thou  shall  live  to  see 
The  sun  rise  high  on  many  a  morn. 

Up  !  live  !  move  and  be  free  !  " 
The  soft  voice  ceased,  the  flower — face 

Up-turned  in  wonder  sweet 
A  dew-drop,  with  its  modest  grace, 

Stooped  down  its  lips  to  meet. 
It  quaffed,  and  soon  in  beauteous  bloom 

Its  fragrance,  pure  and  rare, 
Sweet  thanks  for  its  escape  from  doom, 

Up  floated  on  the  air. 


32  THE    EAGLE. 


THE  EAGLE.—  A  Sonnet 

ATOP  the  lofty  mountain  grimly  stands, 
Silent  above  his  winged,  feathered  flock, 
Immovable  as  is  the  the  massive  rock, 
The  king  of  all  the  smaller  feathered  bands, 
With  piercing  eye  he  looks  o'er  all  the  lands, 
Then  down,  where  many  jagged  boulders  block 
The  way,  and  straggling  creepers  interlock, 
Then  tighter  grasps  the  rock,  with  mighty  hands 
And  flapping  wide  his  wings  against  his  side, 
He  plumes  his  feathers,  and  with  hooked  beak 
He  combs  his  plumage  to  a  glittering  black, 
With  one  keen  glance  around  the  country  wide, 
Down  casts  his  body  from  the  lofty  peak 
In  circling  curves,  pursues  his  chosen  track. 


JAMES    A.    GARFIELD.  33 


JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

1880. 

BENEATH  the  Nation's  banner,  wide  unfurled 
To  do  him  honor,  stands  the  man  we  choose 
To  quell  all  wrong,  to  uphold  right — our  foes 
To  conquer — Lo  !  he  stands  before  the  world 
Our  chosen  ruler — At  his  feet,  down  hurled, 
The  vulture  Fraud — aye  !  every  freeman  knows 
His  upright  bearing — that  his  record  shows. 
When  smoke  of  battle  from  our  homes  up-curled, 
His  arm  was  foremost  in  our  Union's  cause. 
And,  now,  when  war's  wild  trumpet  blast  is  still, 
And  Justice  rules  the  realm,  she  hard  has  earned — 
O'er  our  free  Nation,  ruler  of  her  laws, 
We  raise  this  man.     Ye  people  do  his  will  ! 
On  every  heart  may  Garfield's  name  be  burned. 


34  NAN. 


NAN. 

ABLAZE  of  gaslight,  a  faint  perfume,  a  sea  of  heads 
and  a  fan, 
A  hum  of  voices,  a  trembling  tune — this  is  all,  since  the 

ball  began, 
All   I   have  known,   or  have  heeded,   of  the  glitter,   the 

fuss  and  the  crush, 
For,  'midst  it  all,  I  am  conscious  still,  of  a  half-embarassed 

hush, 
While  Nan  is  bending  her  lovely  head,  and  pulling  the 

petals  apart, 
Of  a  milk-white  rose.      Do  those  fingers  know  they  are 

pulling  to  pieces  a  heart  ? 
Oh,  for  the  days,  when,  a  cavalier  brave,  I  could  sing  of 

chivilric  deeds? 
Oh,  to  be  knight  of  her  chosen  love,  that  her  errant  heart 

must  needs 
Be  warmed  to  life  by  this  love  of  mine,  that  is  burning 

my  heart  away  ! 
Oh,  cruel  Nan,  to  refuse  the  balm,  that  could  all  this  pain 

allay  ! 
Oh,  cruel  Nan,  to  demurly  stand,  with  your  beautiful  eyes 

down -cast, 


NAN.  35 

And  torture  that  rose  that  has  done  no  harm,  while  my 

breath  comes  comes  thick  and  fast. 
Oh,  for  the  courage  to  ask  for  what  I  would  barter  my 

my  life  to  win  ! 
One  word,  a  whisper — it  would  be  done — but  I  know  not 

how  to  begin. 
And  so  I  bend  to  the  lovely  head,  and  whisper — low,  'tis 

true — 
But,  'tis  only  a  common-place,  after  all, — "May  I  have 

this  dance  with  you?" 


36  WINDING    UP   TIME. 


A 
LJL 


WINDING  UP  TIME. 
WEE,  brown  maid  on  a  door-step  sat, 


JLJL     Her  small  face  hid  'neath  a  wide-brimmed  hat 

A  broken  clock  on  her  baby  knee, 

She  wound  with  an  ancient,  rusty  key. 

1  '  What  are  you  doing,  my  pretty  one  ? 

Playing"  with  Time?  "     I  asked  in  fun. 

Large  and  wise  were  the  soft,  dark  eyes, 

Lifted  to  mine  in  a  grave  surprise. 

"  I'se  windin'  him  up,  to  make  him  go, 

For  he's  so  drefful  pokey  and  slow." 

Winding  up  Time  ?     Ah,  baby  mine  ! 

How  crawl  these  lengthened  moments  of  thine  ; 

How  sadly  slow  goes  the  staid  old  man  ; 

But  he  has  not  changed  since  the  world  began. 

He  does  not  change,  but,  in  after  years, 

When  he  mingles  our  cup  of  joy  with  tears  ; 

When  the  day  is  too  short  for  its  crowd  of  cares, 

And  night  surprises  us,  unawares, 

We  will  not  wish  to  hurry  his  feet, 

But  find  his  going  all  too  fleet. 


WINDING    UP   TIME.  37 

Ah,  baby  mine  !     Some  future  day, 

You  will  throw  that  rusted  key  away, 

And  to  Phoebus' s  car  will  madly  cling, 

As  it  whirs  along,  like  a  winged  thing, 

And  wonder,  how,  years  and  years  ago, 

You  could  ever  have  thought  that  Time  was  slow. 


38  BIRDIE. 


BIRDIE. 

BIRDIE,  oh  Birdie  !     Why,  what  are  you  saying, 
Swinging  so  fast  on  that  slender,  young  bough  ? 
Do  you  not  fear  that  a  price  you'll  be  paying, 
For  telling  bad  boys  where  your  home-nest  is  now  ? 
Do  you  find,  Birdie,  that  this  earth  is  sweet  enough  ? 
Have  you  ne'er  fear  that  some  trouble  will  come? 
Come  in  a  wray  that  is  startling,  and  oh,  so  rough  ! 
Robbing  you,  Birdie,  of  children  and  home? 
What  are  you  thinking  of,   with  your  small,  saucy  head 
Tilted  up  sidewise,  with  wide-open  eye  ? 
Is  it  of  baby  birds  safe  in  their  downy  bed? 
Are  you  first  listening  for  their  shrill  cry? 
Birdie,  oh  Birdie  !  my  heart  is  o'erflowing 
With  mirth —  you're  so  funny,  so  solemn  and  small, 
Such  a  wee  mother,  important  and  glowing, 
Sharp  little  ears  for  her  baby-birds'  call. 


KRIS    KRINGLE.  39 


.     KRIS  KRINGLE. 

NIGHT  came  down  o'er  an  English  town, 
Half  hid  'tween  mountains  of  glistening  white 
And  the  villagers  drew  into  a  knot,  for  they  knew 
Kris  Kringle  would  pay  them  a  visit  that  night. 

As  the  sun  went  down  over  all  the  town, 

Rung  the  curfew  bell,  and  the  lights  went  out — 

While  the  children  sped  to  their  humble  bed, 
With  a  sidewise  look  and  a  glance  about, 

Half  hoping  they  might  catch  a  fleeting  sight 
Of  the  broad,  red  face,  with  its  genial  smile — 

And  the  twinkling  eye,  with  its  wink  so  sly — 
And  the  sleigh  and  tiny  reindeer,  the  while, 

The  village  slept,  and  the  moon  had  crept 

Up  to  the  zenith,  and,  all  around, 
Shed  is  its  rays  in  a  dreamy  haze, 

On  the  snow-clad  hill,  and  the  whitened  ground. 


OF 

JHIVERSITT 


40  KRIS    KRINGLE, 

As  the  clock  struck  twelve,  a  minature  elve 
Sprang  from  the  earth,  and  resounded  long 

A  winding  note  from  a  bugle  throat, 

And  from  every  spot  sprung  a  glittering  throng 

Of  fairies  light,  in  their  robes  of  white, 

Bearing  their  queen  on  a  coach  of  ice, 
Dancing  each  side  of  the  coach  with  pride — 

That  was  drawn  by  twelve  silky  and  snow-white  mice. 

Merrily  danced  the  elves,  and  pranced 

Down  through  the  center,  then  back  again. 

Glittering  white  in  the  pale  moonlight- 
So  merrily  danced  the  fairy  train. 

These  were  the  sprites  of  the  Christmas  rites, 
That  the  legend  tells  us  are  always  known, 

At  the  mystic  hour  when  the  old  church  tower 
Re-echoes  the  midnight  bell's  deep  tone. 

At  the  height  of  fun,  when  the  sprites  begun 

To  lead  their  queen  to  a  dancer's  place, 
On  the  air  afloat,  came  a  distant  note, 

A  tinkle  of  bells,  and  each  fairy's  face 

Wore  a  listening  look,  then  their  leader  shook 
Her  scepter,  and  pointed,  in  quick  command, 

To  the  topmost  peak  of  the  mountain  bleak, 
Where  sky  stooped  down  to  salute  the  land. 


KRIS    KRINGLE.  4! 

For  there  appeared,  and  each  moment  neared 
The  group,  a  sleigh  and  twelve  tiny  reindeer. 

Or,  to  be  brief,  'twas  the  Christmas  chief — 
Old  jolly  Kris  Kringle,  with  merry  cheer. 

The  elf-queen  sprung  to  her  chariot,  swung 

The  mice  around,  and  her  signal  gave — 
The  clarion  rung  from  the  bugle  tongue  : 

' '  Up  elves  !  and  away  to  your  sovereign  brave. 

A  moment  more,  and  Kris  Kringle  bore 

Swift  down  from  the  mountain,  with  steaming  deer. 

And  they  pranced  along  to  the  merry  throng, 
Who  met  the  king  with  a  ringing  cheer. 

The  queen's  white  mice,  in  a  merry  trice, 
Had  drawn  her  beside  the  old  king's  sleigh, 

And  the  sprightly  elves  had  ensconced  themslves 
On  deer  and  chariot,  and  up,  away  ! 

Over  the  snow-bound  earth  they  go. 

Down  the  chimnies,  and  everywhere — 
Filling  a  stocking,  without  unlocking 

A  door,  go  Kris  and  his  lady  fair. 

At  last  the  sleigh  being  empty,  they 

Recalled  their  elves,  who  had  helped  unload, 

And  turning  the  mice  and  deer,  in  a  trice, 
Were  speeding  backward  along  the  road. 


42  KRIS    KRINGLE. 

And,  as  they  went,  the  old  king  bent 
A  backward  look  on  the  sleeping  town. 

And  waved  his  hand  o'er  the  white-robed  land. 
' '  Good  will  to  all  !     And  peace  come  down  ! 

And,  in  a  trice,  the  deer  and  mice, 

The  king  and  queen,  and  their  merry  band, 

Had  vanished  quite,  and  the  frosty  night 
Quietly  settled  o'er  all  the  land. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE.  43 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

ALL  nature  slept  beneath  a  spread 
Of  whitest,  softest  snow,  o'er  head 
The  blue  expanse  was  studded  bright 
With  stars — The  soft-eyed  Queen  of  Night 
Rode  silent  in  her  silver  car, 
As  if,  perchance,  a  voice  would  jar 
The  slumbering  earth.     The  trees  weighed  down 
With  limbs  of  snow,  and  whitened  crown, 
Stood  motionless,  like  sentinels, 
On  Christmas  eve — The  town  clock  tells 
Eleven — the  moon-lit,  frosty  air 
Was  still  as  death,  dull  toil  and  care 
Were  sleeping,  and  the  shadows  lay 
Athwart  the  ground  in  grim  array, 
As  slowly  round  the  dial  crept 
The  minute  hand,  and  passed,  unwept, 
The  quarter  hour,  and  then  the  half- 
Three-quarters — and  as  yet,  the  chaff 
Of  thistle  down  would  not  be  stirred 
By  any  breath  could  yet  be  heard 


44  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

Ten  minutes,  five,  four,  three,  two,  one. 

The  Christmas  morning  is  near  begun. 

All  sudden  on  the  silence  rung 

A  joyous  peal,  caught  up,  and  flung 

Upon  the  air  by  many  a  bell 

Who  would  the  gladsome  birthday  tell. 

Flung  high  and  far  in  ringing  peals, 

As  if  each  bell  the  glory  feels. 

Echoed  by  mountain,  hill  and  glen, 

"  Peace  be  on  earth,  good  will  toward  men  ! 


CHRISTMAS.  45 


CHRISTMAS. 

A      TINKLING  of  bells  on  the  frosty  air  ; 
,.jLjL_     A  whir  of  runners  ;  a  gladsome  laugh  ; 
Two  wee  blackbirds  in  the  snow  out  there  ; 
A  burst  of  music,  and  merry  chaff. 

I  know  that  Christmas  is  coming  fast ; 
I  hear  the  sleigh  on  the  roof  above  ; 
I  hear,  in  the  wind,  his  trumpet  blast ; 
And  I  know  he  is  off  on  his  path  of  love. 

I  know  the  signs  that  his  heralds  bring  ; 
I  feel  the  touch  of  his  frosty  breath  ; 
I  hear  his  laugh  in  the  church  bell's  ring  ; 
His  sigh  in  the  frost-nipt  flowers'  death. 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  his  twinkling  eye, 

In  the  dancing  flames  of  the  hearthfire's  glow  ; 

And  his  face,  in  the  snowy  sky, 

And  his  ermine  robe,  in  the  mantling  snow. 


46  CHRISTMAS. 

So  pile  the  logs,  let  the  flame  leap  higher, 
That,  when  he  comes  from  the  outside  cold, 
He  may  warm  himself  by  the  blazing  fire, 
For  dear  Kris  Kringle  is  growing  old. 

There  are  lines  of  care  on  his  ruddy  face, 

There  are  deep  "  crow's-feet"  by  his  laughing  eyes. 

Two  thousand  years  has  he  led  our  race, 

We  will  meet  him  now  with  a  great  surprise. 

And,  when  he  has  warmed  his  frozen  toes, 

Into  his  mittens  he'll  quickly  pop — 

And,  as  up  the  chimney  he  deftly  goes, 

Will  call  ' '  Good  night  ! "  from  the  chimney-top. 


NEW    YEAR  S    EVE.  47 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

A    NOTHER  year  will  be  closed  to-night, 
J__L     Another  link  to  the  chain  ; 
A  day  gone  by  in  every  life — 

A  sheaf  of  the  garnered  grain. 
Another  thread  in  the  warp  and  woof, 

That  is  wrapping  our  lives  around— 
Another  strand  to  the  checkered  ball 

That  from  every  life  is  wound — 
A  finished  page  in  the  ' '  Book  of  Life, ' ' 

Another  leaf  turned  down. 
A  dress  of  rags  or  a  purple  robe, 

A  bed  of  straw,  or  a  crown. 
It  is  all  the  same  to  the  bent  old  man 

Who  has  kept  the  record  true, 
Of  the  past  twelve  months  of  every  life, 

By  moments  the  record  grew. 
And  now  we  stand  by  his  dying  couch, 

And  watch  the  flickering  light, 
As  it  comes  and  goes  in  a  fitful  way, 

Through  the  weary  hours  of  night. 


48  NEW    YEAR  S    EVE. 

It  is  almost  twelve,  and  the  old  man's  breath 

Is  growing  fainter,  and  chill, 
The  damp  has  gathered  in  beaded  drops, 

The  breathing  is  almost  still. 
Silent  we  wait  while  the  minutes  speed, 

And  midnight  is  drawing  nigh. 
Over  his  features  a  shadow  steals, 

And  he  breathes  a  labored  sigh. 
Almost  twelve — through  the  winter's  night 

A  sound  of  music  comes — 
A  silvery  peal  of  fife  and  horn, 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drums. 
A  childish  face,  and  a  snow  white  robe, 

In  the  room — and  the  bell  outpealed 
Twelve — while  the  sweet  new-comer  came, 

And  down  by  the  bedside  kneeled. 
The  dim  eyes  opened  a  moment,  then, 

And  the  feeble  hand  outheld 
The  "  Book  of  Records"  and  the  hour-glass, 

A  look  that  would  volumes  tell. 
' '  I  trust  to  you  the  coming  year ' ' 

That  look  of  meaning  said — 
And  sinking  back,  with  a  tired  sigh, 

The  dear  Old  Year  was  dead. 


MY    CALLER.  49 


MY  CALLER. 


ONLY  one  caller  this  New  Year 
For  I  live  in  a  quiet  street ; 
And  am  all  unknown 
To  the  busy  throng, 
That  make  up  the  world's  elite. 

Only  one  caller  this  New  Year, 
But  my  caller  stayed  all  day— 

And  the  sand  slipped  through 

The  hour-glass,  too, 
In  a  very  old  fashioned  way. 

Before  the  grate,  red  blazing, 
It  may  be  silence  fell — 

But,  if  it  was  so, 

Or  whether,  or  no, 
Do  you  think  I'm -going  to  tell. 

I  can  see  from  my  cottage  window 
A  mansion  on  Grandee  street  ; 

And  can  hear  the  rush, 

The  hurry  and  crush, 
And  the  tramp  of  Fashion's  feet. 


50  MY    CALLER. 

But  I  do  not  envy  the  many 
That  are  calling  there  to-day, 

I  am  well  content 

That  the  gods  have  sent 
One  caller  along  this  way. 

Only  one  called  this  New  Year — 
But  my  one  sufficed  for  all 

The  hundred  and  more 

That  passed  my  door 
On  their  way  to  Fashion's  hall. 

Let  them  count  their  cards  and  conquests, 
I  am  content  with  mine — 

Let  them  smile  and  boast 

And  drink  the  toast 
In  the  deep  of  the  sparkling  wine. 

My  single  caller  is  all  enough, 
They  may  think  I  covet  the  rest 

The  many  calls, 

The  parties  and  balls, 
But  my  caller  and  I  know  best. 


NEW    YEAR'S    CALLERS.  51 


NEW  YEAR'S  CALLERS. 

C  CALLERS  and  callers,  and  wine  and  cake, 
y      And  every  degree  of  nervous  hand  shake. 
Some  will  bow  with  a  languid  air, 
A  critical  note  of  my  dress  and  hair. 
Others  bend  o'er  my  white-gloved  hand 
And  murmur,  faintly,  a  sentence  bland. 
My  right  arm  aches  with  the  tedious  strain 
And  my  head  is  splitting  in  two  with  the  pain. 
And  it's  only  five  o'clock — just  think  ! 
Six  more  hours  of  healths  to  drink, 
Hundreds  more  to  be  met,  and  hear 
The  same  old  commonplace  in  my  ear. 
The  same  ' '  so  happy ' '  and  ' '  many  returns  ' ' 
A  smile,  a  bow,  the  tormentor  turns 
To  give  his  place  to  another — ah  me, 
And  is  this  the  "  world  "  I  came  to  see? 
Is  this  the  brilliant,  the  ' '  fashion  world  ?  ' ' 
Its  only  aim  to  be  lightly  whirled 
Thro'  a  gaslit  room,  or  to  grinning  stand, 
And  bow  and  caper  and  offer  your  hand 


52  NEW    YEAR'S    CALLERS. 

To  hundreds  whose  faces  you  cannot  recall, 

And  is  this  the  brilliant  fashion  and  all  ? 

Ah  me  to  stand,  on  New  Year's  day, 

In  the  old,  bright  parlor,  so  far  away — 

And  wait,  betwixt  dinner  and  supper,  to  hear 

A  ringing-  voice,  with  its  hearty  cheer. 

I  did  not  covet  the  many  calls, 

Or  the  numerous  parties  and  balls 

When  I  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  year  ago, 

And  received  my  caller  from  out  of  the  snow. 

I  did  not  envy  the  parties  a  bit, 

When  the  glow  of  the  wood  fire  lit 

The  chestnut  curls  and  the  laughing  face, 

That  the  head  of  the  proudest  king  would  grace. 

And  I  miss  that  face  from  the  smirking  throng 

That  have  nodded  and  bustled  the  whole  day  long. 

I  like  the  money  and  all  it  brings, 

But  the  dressing,  fussing,  and  calling  rings 

With  a  spurious  sound  ;  and  instead  of  men, 

With  hearts  and  souls,  I  feel,  time  and  again, 

As  if  we  were  dolls,  made  after  the  same, 

Identical  patterns,  save  just  in  name. 

I  thought  how  grand  it  would  be  to  shine 

In  a  circle  of  "upper  ten,"  and  dine 

With  the  "best  select,"  when  I  was  told 

I  was  left  sole  heiress  to  heaps  of  gold. 


NEW    YEAR'S    CALLERS.  53 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  it  is  wisely  said 

That  uneasy  must  lie  the  crowned  head. 

I  would  give  it  all — but  who  can  be 

That  tall  young  fellow  approaching  me  ? 

So  much  unlike  the  "puppet  men," 

I  have  met  with  a  greeting,  time  and  again. 

It  is — no  ! — yes  !— am  I  awake. 

Those  soft,  dark  eyes  and  the  warm  hand  shake, 

And  the  chestnut  curls — my  best  of  friends, 

For  all  my  trials  this  makes  amends. 

My  caller  of  just  a  year  ago — 

Who  came  to  me  through  the  driving  snow. 

Of  course  he  is  only  a  friend,  but  then 

He  makes  me  feel  myself  again. 


54  ONLY    FRIENDS. 


ONLY  FRIENDS. 

A      MANLY  fellow,  straight  and  tall— 
j^\_     A  wee,  brown  maiden,  dainty,  small ; 
Two  eyes  of  gray,  two  eyes  of  brown — 
Gray  eyes  in  dark — brown  eyes  look  down  ; 
A  small  plump  hand,  held  frankly  out  ; 
A  mouth,  that  half  suggests  a  pout, 
Has  framed  the  simple  words,  ' '  Good-bye  ; ' ' 
The  manly  lips  likewise  reply  ; 
She  laughs — he  smiles — and  then  hands  meet- 
A  nod — "  Good-bye" — he's  down  the  street. 
He  meets  a  friend — "I  say,  old  boy, 
How's  pretty  Minnie — dainty,  coy? 
Come  don't  deny,  dear  fellow  ;  say  ! 
/saw  your  parting — plain  as  day." 
"  By  Jove  !  my  boy,  you're  going-  mad, 
Your  ignorance  is  really  sad. 
Miss  Minnie?     Why  I've  not  in  town 
So  old  a  friend  as  Minnie  Brown  ! 
That's  rich,  by  Jove  !  too  rich,  by  half! 
I'll  tell't  to  Min  ;  'twill  make  her  laugh." 


ONLY    FRIENDS.  55 

A  friend  of  Minnie  also  saw 

The  friendly  parting  at  the  door  ; 

"  Come  !  Minnie,  tell  me  when  'twill  be. 

Now  don't  look  stupid  ;  folks  can  see 

That  you're  engaged  to  Edward  Ames. 

Now,  don't  be  cross  and  call  bad  names, 

I  saw  your  parting  at  the  door  ; 

'Twas  proof  enough — I  want  no  more. 

But  Minnie  raised  her  honest  eyes, 

And  said  in  genuine  surprise  : 

"  We're  only  friends,  Ned  Ames  and  I  ; 

I've  known  him  since  I  was  so  high. 

The  idea  never  crossed  my  mind 

That  aught  but  friendship  folks  could  find 

In  all  I've  said  to  him,  or  he 

Has  said  in  fun  or  truth  to  me. 

I'll  tell  him  when  he  comes  to-day — 

The  dear  old  fellow — what  folks  say — 

He'll  laugh,  I  guess,  to  think,  forsooth, 

Folks  guess  so  very  far  from  truth. 

He  came.      ' '  O  Ned  !  the  queerest  news 

I  heard  to-day  from  Clara  Dawes  !  " 

"  Not  half  so  funny,  Min,  as  I 

Was  told  to-day  by  Franklyn  Nye." 

' '  Wait,  Ned  ;  let  me  tell  first, ' '  she  said. 

"  Dear  me  !     You'd  never  guess  it,  Ned." 


56  ONLY    FRIENDS. 

She  said — "oh,  dear  !  those  stupid  boors. 

I  guess  I'll  tell  mine  last — tell  yours." 

"  Well,  Min,  Frank  Nye  was  trying  to  chaff 
About — by  Jove,  it  made  me  laugh — 
About,  you  know — say,  Min,  can't  you 
Tell  me  yours  first?     Now,  how' 11  that  do?  " 
' '  Oh,  never  mind — '  tis  best  unsaid. 
You  wouldn't  care  to  hear  it,  Ned." 
"Oh,  yes  I  would.     But  I'll  tell  first 
My  news.     Prepare,  Min,  for  the  worst  ! 
Well,  here  it  is  :     He  said — Frank  Nye — 
That  we  were  'spoony,'  you  andi." 

II  Oh,  Ned  how  strange  !     Why  that's  what  she— 
I  mean  Miss  Clara,  told  to  me." 

"  No,  Min.     By  Jove  !  the  deuce  it  is  ! 

So  her  news  was  the  same  as  his  ? 

What  bosh  !     Enough  of  this.      I've  come 

To  tell  you  I  shall  soon  leave  home 

To  stay  a  year — most  likely  two. 

I  say,  what  makes  you  look  so  blue? 

Tears,  Min?     Good  gracious  !  what's  up  now? 

Come  tell  a  fellow  what' s  the  row  ?  ' ' 

"I — I — 'tis  nothing — truly  -Ned — 

But — don't  go — stay  at  home  instead." 

Two  flushed,  red  cheeks,  two  dark-brown  eyes — 

Two  gray  eyes  opened  in  surprise — 


ONLY    FRIENDS.  57 

The  gray  eyes  meet  the  eyes  of  brown  ; 
The  brown  eyes  droop  their  lashes  down. 
A  pause,  and  then  a  whisle  low, 
"  By  George  ! — well,  Min,  I  didn't  know — 
But  something  cut  the  sentence  short — 
Two  pouting  lips  tried  to  retort, 
The  manly  lips  refused  the  quest — 
I'll  leave  you  now  to  guess  the  rest. 

A  manly  fellow,  straight  and  tall, 

A  wee,  brown  maiden,  dainty,  smalL— 

Two  eyes  of  gray — two  eyes  of  brown — 

Gray  eyes  in  dark — brown  eyes  look  down. 

A  small,  plump  hand  held  firmly  in 

A  larger  palm.      "  My  darling  Min  !  " 

Again  is  breathed  a  low  "good-bye  " 

A  scarcely  audible  reply, 

' '  Folks  weren't  very  wrong,  hey,  Min  ? 

I  guess  'twas  we  were  '  taken  in,' 

But  if  they  hadn't  guessed  the  truth, 

We'd  never  known  ourselves,  forsooth." 


58  WAITING    FOR    SANTA    CLAUS. 


WAITING  FOR  SANTA  CLAUS. 

BEYOND  the  curtain's  crimson  light, 
Is  still  and  fair,  the  winter  night  ; 
Wrapt  in  her  ermine  robe  she  lies, 
Asleep  beneath  the  snowy  skies, 
Above  peep  down  the  twinkling  stars, 
Between  the  slanting  moon-beam  bars, 
One  Christmas  Eve. 

A  bright  fire  in  the  open  grate  ; 
The  stockings  all  expectant  wait ; 
The  household  pets  sleep  on  the  rug, 
Canine  and  feline,  social,  snug  ; 
A  spicy  smell  of  evergreen, 
A  gentle  hush  o'er  every  thing, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

Upstairs,  within  her  little  bed, 

A  child  raised  up  her  golden  head, 

And  slyly  ope'd  her  saucy  eyes, 

And  glanced  around,  and  nodded  wise  ; 


WAITING    FOR    SANTA    GLAUS.  59 

Then  softly  slipped  upon  the  floor, 

And  slyly  ope'd  her  chamber  door, 

That  Christmas  Eve. 

Then,  round  about  her  childish  form, 
She  wrapt  a  blanket,  thick  and  warm, 
And,  noiseless,  down  the  stair-case  crept, 
To  where  her  hairy  playmates  slept. 
Behind  her  softly  closed  the  door, 
And  down  she  sank  upon  the  floor, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

The  big  Newfoundland  raised  his  eyes, 
And  far  too  sleepy  for  surprise, 
Gave  with  his  tail  a  tap  or  two  ; 
The  cat  looked  mildly  ' '  How  d'  do  ?  " 
Then  quietly  to  dozing"  fell, 
Before  the  fire's  drowzy  spell, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

Down  snuggled  close  the  child,  beside 
The  big  Newfoundland's  shaggy  hide, 
"  I'ze  turn  to  watch  for  Santa  Glaus," 
She  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  because 


60  WAITING    FOR    SANTA    CLAUS. 

I  wote  a  letter  all  myself, 
And  sent  it, ' '  said  the  little  elf, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

"Of  tourse  I  touldn't  use  a  pen, 
So  mama  held  my  hand,  and  zen 
I  told  him  'zactly  what  to  bring — 
And  when  I  hear  his  sleighbells  ring 
I'ze  doin'  to  hide  away,  for  fear 
He  wouldn't  turn  if  I  was  here, 
On  Twismas  Eve. 

But — but — oh  dear  !  I  wish  he'd  turn  ! 
I  asked  for  brover  Ned  a  dwum, 
And — and —     ' '  the  golden  head  lay  fair, 
Against  the  faithful  dog's  rough  hair, 
The  eyelids  drooped.     On  Nature's  breast 
The  little  one  was  hushed  to  rest, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

Upon  the  roof  a  patter  came, 
Like  swiftly  falling  drops  of  rain, 
And  down  the  chimney  quickly  popped, 
A  stout  old'  man,  who  briskly  hopped 


WAITING    FOR    SANTA    CLAUS.  6 1 

Upon  the  fender,  gazed  around, 
Then  softly  stepped  upon  the  ground, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

The  dog  looked  up  with  kindly  eyes, 
The  tabbies  gazed  in  mild  surprise, 
While  down  was  swung  the  monstrous  pack 
The  old  man  carried  on  his  back  ; 
And,  at  a  signal  from  his  hand, 
From  out  his  pockets  sprang  a  band, 
That  Christmas  Eve, 

Of  merry,  dancing,  prancing  elves, 
Who,  in  a  twink,  ensconced  themselves 
Upon  the  pack,  and  quick  begun 
To  fill  the  stockings,  one  by  one, 
Old  Santa  Claus,  in  glancing  round, 
Espied  the  child  upon  the  ground, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

"  Oh,  ho  !  what  have  we  here?  "  said  he, 
"  Been  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  me, 
And  while  on  guard,  fell  fast  asleep  ? 
My  pretty  one,  your  slumber  keep, 


62  WAITING    FOR    SANTA    GLAUS. 

And  Santa  Claus,  and  all  his  band, 
Will  follow  you  to  Slumber-land, 
This  Christmas  Eve." 

He  softly  touched  the  waxen  lids, 
' '  My  followers,  do  as  Santa  bids  !  " 
And,  gathering  up  his  lessened  pack, 
He  quickly  strapped  it  on  his  back, 
And  followed  by  his  elfin  throng, 
Skipped  up  the  chimney,  and  was  gone, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 

And  when  we  found  her  childish  form 
Wrapt  in  the  blanket,  snug  and  warm, 
Her  ripe  lips  parted  in  a  smile, 
Though  locked  in  slumber  deep  the  while, 
We  knew  Kris  Kringle  and  his  band 
Had  followed  her  to  Slumber-land, 
That  Christmas  Eve. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE.  63 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

THERE'S  a  beautiful  spirit  hovering 
Just  over  our  earth  to-night, 
A  roseat  flush  on  the  fair,  round  cheek, 
And  eyes  of  a  mystic  light. 

There's  a  bent  old  man  on  the  threshold 
Who  turns  back  his  tired  eyes, 
O'er  the  checkered  path  he  has  lately  trod, 
Then  up  to  the  star-lit  sky, 

Where  the  beautiful  spirit  hovers, 
In  its  hand  a  fair  white  scroll, 
On  which  it  will,  in  the  coming  year, 
Our  records  all  enroll. 

The  bent  old  man  upreaches, 
And  clasps  with  his  withered  hand 
The  rosy  palm  downstretched  to  his, 
And  gently  draws  it  to  land. 


64  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

And  there  in  the  open  doorway 
They  greet  and  say  farewell, 
While  out  from  the  old  church  steeple 
Peals  forth  the  gladsome  bell. 

When  the  twelve  sharp  strokes  have  ended 
The  bent  old  man  is  gone, 
And  the  spirit  has  crossed  the  threshold 
Of  another  New  Year's  morn. 


BABY     WISDOM.  65 


BABY  WISDOM. 

BABY  Nell  at  the  window  pane 
Gazed  solemnly  out  at  the  driving  rain. 
With  grave  reflections  the  blue  eyes  fraught, 
My  darling  was  lost  in  profoundest  thought. 
"  Sage  old  Wisdom  has  passed,"  I  said, 
''And  touched  his  wand  to  that  baby  head. 
The  grim  old  fellow,  now  and  then, 
Passes  us  older  women  and  men, 
To  trace  a  look  so  wondrous  wise, 
In  the  fathomless  depths  of  a  baby's  eyes. 
Problems  of  moment  and  questions  of  fate 
Are  hidden  away  'neath  that  curly  pate." 
Then  I  crossed  to  the  little  figure  there, 
And  laid  a  hand  on  her  sunny  hair. 
"  What  do  you  see  but  cold  and  wet 
To  chain  your  gaze  to  the  window,  pet  ? " 
The  eyes  were  misty  with  unshed  tears, 
And  grave  with  a  wisdom  beyond  her  years, 
As  gravely  she  turned  'round  her  golden  head, 
"  I'ze  wonderin'  what  makes  Dod  cwy,"  she  said. 


66  1979- 


1979- 

ONE  hundred  years  have  rolled  away  from  off  Time's 
lengthened  scroll, 
And  boys  have  grown  to  gray-haired  sires,  and  tottered 

to  the  goal. 

One  hundred  years  since  '79 — a  century  ago. 
'Twas  then  my  great-great-grandma  lived — at  least  ma 

told  me  so. 

I  found  a  musty  album  and  a  lot  of  yellow  scraps — 
To-day,  up  in  the  garret,  amongst  some  queer,  old  traps, 
A  pile  of  letters,  neatly  tied,  and  dated  '76. 
'Twas   then    my   great-great-grandpa   came    and    Cupid 

played  his  tricks. 

The  journal's  dated  '79 — it  was  that  year,  I'm  sure, 
Some  famous  general,  Grant,  I  think,  returned  from  his 

tour. 
And  great-great-grandma's  sister  Sue  strewed  flowers  in 

his  way. 

The  people  all  turned  out — 'twas  quite  a  gala  day. 
And  Edison,   and  all  those  men,  were  famous  then,  'tis 

said. 


1979-  67 

And  yet,  they  failed  in  many  things  that  we  have  done 

instead. 
There's  Smith  has  made  an  air  machine  that  travels  fast 

as  steam, 
And  Brown  and  Jones  together  make  their  butter  without 

cream. 
Our  walking  matches,  now-a-days,    I'm  sure  cannot  be 

beat ; 
Contestants  go  upon  their  hands,  they're  not  confined  to 

feet. 

Why  Billy  Jones,  upon  his  hands,  but  just  the  other  day, 
Made  splendid  time  upon  the  track,  against  old  Daniel's 

bay. 
And   ' '  Webster's    Unabridged "   was  then    but   two  feet 

square,  'tis  said. 

Why  dictionaries,  now-a-days,  are  large  as  any  bed. 
They  could  not  else  contain  the  words  that   have  been 

coined  since  then. 
Why,  the  two  feet  square  would  not  half  hold  the  names 

of  famous  men. 
And  here,  among  the  yellow  scraps,   is  one  so  old  and 

worn, 

I  scarce  can  cull  its  meaning — the  printing's  almost  gone. 
The  writer  is  Charles  Warren  S ,  I  can't  make  out 

the  name. 


68 

It  must  be  Stoddard — that  young  man,  who  gained  such 

fame, 

A  century  and  more  ago — I  think  in  '81, 
At  the  good  old  age  of  eighty-five,  they  say  his  course 

was  run. 
My   great-great-grandma,    in    her    time,    I'm    told,    was 

quite  a  belle, 

And  at  the  "Authors'  Carnival  "  she  cut  a  dashing  swell, 
As  Lady  Leicester  Dudlock,  tall,  stately,  calm  and  proud, 
And  here,  in  this  old  paper,  they  ring  her  praises  loud. 
Why,  just  above  the  mantle,  an  ancient  painting  hangs, 
With    puffs   of  soft,    white,    fleecy    hair,— and    not   those 

horrid  bangs — 

They  wore  in  1879,  that  made  one  look  so  wild — 
And   that   was   great-great-grandmama,  when   grandma 

was  a  child. 
'Tis  not  much  like  the  brilliant  belle,  that  queened  it  over 

hearts — 
In  those  old  days  of  Carnivals,   and  balls,   and  Cupid's 

darts. 
They  say  she  flirted  desperately  with  George  Fitznoodle 

Browne, 
And  trod  on  hearts  most  ruthlessly,  and  trampled  feelings 

down. 
And  yet,  she  must  have  had  a  heart,  for,  in  that  quaint, 

old  chest, 


1979-  69 

I  found,  wrapt  up  in  lavender,  deep  in  its  velvet  nest, 
A  quaint,  old  ring — inside  engraved :     "From  Frank." 

Now  grandpa's  name 

Was  James,  for  generations  it  has  been  just  the  same. 
It  seems  so  strange  that  grandmama  could  ever  have  been 

young, 

And  wrapt  up  rings  in  lavender,  or  love-tunes  ever  sung. 
It  seems  still  queerer,  when  I  think  that  /  shall  ever  be 
A  great -great-grandmama,  and  folks  will  talk  the  same  of 

me. 
And    wonder,    as    I     wonder   now,    who    "Frank,"    or 

' '  Harry  ' '  was, 

And  if  they  were  my  lovers?  and  all — and  just  because 
They'll  find  a  tiny  scrap,  or  ring,  or  some  old  trinket, 

where 
I've  laid  it — never  reck' ning  of   the  bright  young  eye 

who'll  share 

With  me  my  well-kept  secret,  a  hundred  years  from  now, 
And  wonder  where  it  came  from,  from  whom,  and  when, 

and  how. 
And  isn't  it  strange  that  /  should  be  the  first  in  all  these 

years, 
To  find   the  treasured    trinket,   with    its  tale  of  unshed 

tears  ? 
I'll  put  them  back — the  scraps  and  all — and  lock  the  old 

chest  tight, 


yo  1979- 

And  all  my  "  private  letters,"  I'll  mark  this  very  night. 
"  To  be  destroyed  unopened" — I'll  be  sure  before  I  go 
My  grandchild,  or  great-great-grandchild,  shall  never 

know 
Their  contents  —  then  I'll   rest    content,   that  when  one 

hundred  years 
Have  rolled  away,  'midst  storm  and  shine,  weighed  down 

with  smiles  and  tears, 
My  great-great-grandchild    shall    not    muse,   as    I    have 

mused  to-day. 
Why,    great-great-grandpa's    name    was    James,    while 

Frank  was  in  the  way. 

I've  half  a  mind  to  neatly  fold  this  lock  of  yellow  hair — 
(  It  is  my  own  ),  together  with  this  plain  gold  ring,  that 

Clare — 
My  dearest  friend  at  Madam  Sharp's,   but  just  a  week 

ago, 
Gave  me.      My  great-great-grandchildren,  I'm  sure,  will 

never  know 

The  difference,  and  I  guess  I'll  lay  them  both  away, 
And  then,   a  hundred    years  from  now,    I  wonder  what 

they'll  say. 
"Why,   here's  a  ring!     A  lock    of  hair!     Come   girls, 

come  quick  and  look  ! 
How  delightfully  romantic  !     It  seems  just  like  a  book. 


1979-  7i 

And    what    is    this?     'From    Clare' — that   stands   for 

Clarence — why,  I  know 
That  was    not   great-great-grandpa's    name — and    yet  it 

must  be  so. 
But  great-great-grandpa's   name  was — "  wrell,    anything 

you  choose ; " 

And  then  the  foolish  children  will  fly  to  tell  the  news, 
How  great-great-grandma  was  in  love — had  kept  a  lock 

of  hair, 
And  a  ring — a  plain   gold   ring — that   Clarence  used  to 

wear. 
And  my  dry  old   bones  will   rattle,   within  their  narrow 

bed, 

With  laughter,  thinking  how  the  world  jogs  on — instead 
Of  making  new  ideas,  they  cling  closely  to  the  old— 
And  take  the  false  down  for  the  true  —the  glitter  for  the 

gold. 

And  state  as  facts  what  none  can  prove,  call  wrong  con 
clusions  right, 
And  turn  the  whole  world  upside  down — turn  day-light 

into  night 

For  "  History  repeats  itself,"  and  it  is  hard  to  tell 
That  great-great-grandma  has  not  played  a  trick  on  me 

as  well. 


72  I979- 

That  "  Frank"   might  have  been  "  Frances,"  a  school 
girl  friend,  'tis  true — 
But  then,  the  ring  and  lavender— /  don't  think  so,   do 


you? 


RETRIBUTION.  73 


RETRIBUTION. 

ONE  week  since  my  wedding?    I  know,  Tom,  I  know 
I  ought  to  be  happy — my  wife  "  all  the  go  ?" 
Just  listen,  old  boy,  and  I'll  tell  you  it  all  : — 
I  met  her  the  night  of  the  Cavalry  Ball. 
Tall,  stately — with  eyes  of  the  deepest  of  black  ; 
Fine  form,  pearly  teeth — we  were  all  on  the  rack. 
An  heiress  to  millions — and  in  her  own  right — 
By  Jove  !     I  believe  I  was  crazy  that  night, 
When    I   met  those  dark    eyes.     You    know,  Tom,  my 

boy — 

Folks  thought  I  was  wealthy — and  many  a  decoy 
Was  set  by  manceuvering  mamas  and  gay  belles — 
But  I  baffled  them  all— let  them  think— for  it  tells 
For  a  fellow — and,  yet,  Tom — betwixt  you  and  me — 
I  was  hard  up.      By  Jove  !     Tom,   old  boy — don't  you 

see 

I  needed  a  wife  with  a  purse  full  of  gold? 
For  mine  was  nigh  empty,  and,  by  George  !  they  were 

sold, 
Who  counted  my  money.     So  you  see,  Tom,  that  night 


74  RETRIBUTION. 

I  went  in  for  the  stakes.     I  know  'twas  not  right — 

I  played  well  my  part — played  the  deuce,  Tom,  and  all — 

I  was  desperate  !     However,  she  asked  me  to  call. 

I  did — and  I  asked  at  the  door  for  "  Miss  Clair  "- 

The  heiress's  name — sent  my  card — on  the  stair 

A  light  footfall,  I  rose,  as  she  came  in  the  door — 

I  arose,  and  stood  rooted,  old  boy,  to  the  floor. 

Not  Miss  Clair — but,  Tom,  from  that  moment  my  heart 

Was  no  more  my  own — and  a  pain,  like  a  dart, 

Shot  through  it.     And  why,  Tom,  I  scracely  can  tell, 

But  the  eyes  were  so  pleading — old  boy — that — ah,  well ! 

And  the  sweet  face,  and  changeable  color,  and  all — 

And  the  start  of  surprise.     Then  she  asked  did  I  call 

For  Miss  Clair  ?     Excuse  her — she  misunderstood 

The  maid-servant's  message  ;  she  lipped  that  I  would 

Forgive  the  delay,  and  my  card  should,  at  once, 

Be  sent  to  Miss  Clair.     Tom,  I'd  stood  like  a  dunce, 

All  those  moments,  spell-bound  by  the  lovliest  face 

I  ever  had  seen — the  ineffable  grace, 

And  innocent  frankness,  the  pleading  grey  eyes, 

Uplifted  to  mine,  in  their  childish  surprise, 

Held  my  gaze,  like  a  spell,  and  before  I  had  found 

My  voice — she  had  gone.     In  a  moment  a  sound 

Of  stiff  rustling  silk  broke  the  spell,  and  Miss  Clair 

Stood  before  me,  all  graciousness,  queenly,  and  fair. 

But,  somehow,  she  didn't  appear  quite  the  prize 


RETRIBUTION.  75 

She'd  appeared  on  that  night,  to  my  poor,  dazzled  eyes. 

But  I  knew  I  must  play  out  the  game.     If  I  lost 

My  ruin  was  certain — I'd  counted  the  cost. 

"  So  sorry  to  keep  you  so  long  " — so  she  said, 

But  my  card  had  been  given  to  Clara,  instead — 

A  young  orphan,  a  penniless  friend,  who  had  come 

To  stay  for  a  time  at  her  beautiful  home. 

And  all  as  a  sort  of  apology,  Tom — 

For  "  poor  Clara."     And  then  the  talk  drifted  on, 

To  others.     Well,  after  that  day,  not  a  week 

But  I  called  at  Miss  Clair's.     For  whom  did  I  seek  ? 

The  heiress,  of  course  ;  but  how  often  I  met 

Her  friend,  with  the  lovely  soft  eyes.     Tom,  it  set 

My  very  heart  bounding ;  and  sometimes  when  we 

Were  alone — when  the  heiress  was  out — or  when  she 

Had  not  yet  appeared,  we  conversed,  and  I  found 

How  wide  was  her  reading — and  how  clear,  Tom,  and 

sound 
Was  her  reasoning.     On  music,   art,  books,  Tom — and 

all— 

I  led  her  to  talk,  but  nothing  would  pall 
On  her  interest.     And  the  sweet  eyes  would  grow  dark. 
And  I  drank  in  their  spell,  like  a  fool,  till  no  spark 
Of  love  for  the  heiress  remained,  Tom,  but  I 
Had  ventured  my  all  ;  I  must  win  her,  or  die. 
But  when,  at  my  coming,  the  color  would  rise, 


76  RETRIBUTION. 

And  the  sweet  light  of  welcome  would  soften  her  eyes — 

It  took  all  my  strength— my  heart  was  so  wrung, 

To  keep  back  the  words  that  were  burning  my  tongue. 

But  I  did,  Tom ;  at  last,  I  asked  for  her  hand — 

The  heiress  of  course — and  in  all  the  land, 

They  said  that  no  luckier  fellow  than  I 

Existed — and  all — how  I  wished  I  might  die  ! 

Well,  I  called,  Tom,  next  day,  and  the  innocent  eyes 

Met  mine,  in  their  frankness  and  startled  surprise. 

"  Heard  the  news  ?     What  news  ?  "     No,  Miss  Clair  had 

been  late 

Last  night,  and  her  friend  grown  too  tired  to  wait 
Her  return.     Would   I  tell   her?     The  soft  glance   up 
raised, 
With  a  blush.     Then   I   told,  with   my  poor  brain   half 

dazed. 

No  start  of  surprise,  just  a  long  searching  glance 
Of  the  eyes.     Tom,  it  pierced  through  my  heart  like  a 

lance. 

That  one,  dreadful  moment,  her  pure  soul  had  read 
The  baseness  of  mine.     Then  she  pleasantly  said 
She  wished  us  much  joy,  and  the  eyes  left  my  face ; 
And  if  aught  had  pained  her,  she  showed  not  a  trace. 
But  the  eyes  !  and  that  glance  !     Shall  I  ever  forget ! 
No,  never !     Great  God,  Tom,  they're  haunting  me  yet. 
We  were  married,  and  the  denouncement  came. 


RETRIBUTION.  77 

I  confessed  to  my  bride,  and  not  without  shame, 

My  debts,  Tom,  and  all — how  I  hadn't  a  cent ; 

For  the  ring  and  my  gloves,  the  last  dime  had  been  spent. 

My  wife  rose  up,  then — quite  calm,  but  I  saw 

The  tempest  was  coming.     I  cared  not  a  straw. 

I  was  desperate,  Tom,  but  I  paled  to  the  lips 

When  I  learned  the  whole  truth — took  it  in  as  by  sips. 

There'd  been  a  mistake.     She  hadn't  a  dime, 

And  Clara's  the  heiress ;  she  had,  all  the  time, 

Been  playing  a  part.     And  Clara  had  urged 

The  use  of  her  money — and  all — she  had  "  splurged." 

So  she  told  me — and  all  in  the  coolest  of  tone. 

I  stood  there,  old  boy,  as  if  turned  into  stone. 

Well,  Tom,  I  am  ruined.     To-morrow  'twill  be 

Discussed  'round  town.     Don't  look  so  at  me ! 

I'm  wretched  enough.      It  is  my  fault  you  say? 

I  know  it,  don't  taunt  me,  old  boy,  in  that  way ! 

My  wife?     Well,  she  married  for  money,  as  well 

As  myself.     One  can't  wonder  the  miserable  "  sell  " 

Has  turned  her  away.     I  am  sure,  as  for  that, 

She's  as  bad,  Tom,  as  I  am  ;  'twas  but  "  tit  for  tat." 

I  could  bear  it,  old  boy,  the  disgrace,  debts  and  all, 

With  one  voice  to  cheer  me  whenever  I  fall. 

And  I'd  give  half  my  .life,  to  live  over  again 

Those  past  months,  so  freighted  with  sorrow  and  pain. 

A  curse  on  the  money  !  the  glittering  lie  ! 


78  RETRIBUTION. 

It  lures  us  with  its  promises  on  till  we  die ! 
A  curse  on  the  money  !  the  root  of  all  wrong ! 
I  but  followed  along  with  the  rest  of  the  throng, 
Who  are  grappling  for  gold,  and  trampling  from  sight, 
'Neath  their  pitiless  feet,  every  feeling  of  right. 
And  cursed  are  the  wretches,  who,  wrhen  all  is  done, 
Find,  too  late,  they  have  lost  by  the  game,  and  not  won. 
And  remember,  old  boy,  all  our  sorrows  and  joys 
Depend  on  this  fact ;  hearts  are  dangerous  toys. 
And  he  who  would  think  to  win  peace  will  be  sold 
If  he  builds  all  his  hopes  on  the  treacherous  gold. 


:  JACK::  THORNTON'S  "MISTAKE  : 


: :  A  Novel  in    Verse  ' ' 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE.  81 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 


A    NOVEL    IN    VERSE. 


in,   Ned,  old  boy  —  take  a  chair;    on  that 
shelf 

Are  cigars  and  a  meerschaum — fill  up,  help  yourself. 
'Tis  an  age  since  you  lent  me  the  light  of  your  smile. 
Come  !  tell  me,  I  pray,  where  you've  been  all  the  while. 
Been  '  courting '  I  hear — if  report  tells  me  true, 
There'll  soon  be  one  less  in  our  '  Bachelor  Crew.' 
You'll  tell  me  the  name  of  the  lady,  old  boy  ? 
We've  been  cronies  too  long  for  you  now  to  be  coy. 
You  can  trust  to  Jack  Thornton  ;  come,  tell  me  I  say- 
Quick  !     Out  with  it,  Ned  !  without  further  delay." 


82  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

"  Well,  the  truth  is,  my  friend — 'tis,  as  yet,  but  a  bet — 

In  fact,  to  be  frank,  Jack — I  haven't  asked  yet  ; 

But  there's  no  use  denying  her  dark,  tender  eyes 

Play  the  deuce  with  my  heartstrings — or,  as  it  all  lies 

In  a  nutshell — you  see,  I  am  madly  in  love. 

There  !  the  murder  is  out.     Let  me  tell  you — above 

The  Park,  there's  a  road  to  the  right,  that  winds  round 

The  mountains,  and  on  to  the  sea — there  I  found 

My  fair  Dulcinea — in  a  garden  of  flowers, 

Replete  with  rude  arbors  and  picturesque  bowers. 

Chancing  once  in  my  walk  to  stray  down  this  same  road, 

I  came,  unsuspecting,  upon  this  abode — 

O'er  grown  with  white  roses  and  shy  passion  vine, 

While  over  the  windows  bright  nasturtiums  twine. 

And  flitting  about,  'mongst  the  flowers,  a  maid — 

Ah,  Jack,  boy,  words  fail  me — enough  that  it  paid 

Me  well  for  my  walk  there — one  'wildering  glance, 

Half  startled,  half  shy — how  it  made  my  heart  dance ! 

By  Jove  !   I  had  lifted  my  hat,  'fore  I  thought — 

And,  slight  though  the  act,  to  her  sweet  face  it  brought 

A  blush,  then  she  turned — and  an  oak  tree  soon  hid 

Her  light  form  from  view — but  the  meeting  undid 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE.  83 

My  nerves  for  that  day  and  I  walked  slowly  home — 

That  was  two  years  ago,  Jack — while  you  were  in  Rome. 

Well,  my  friend,  after  that,  I  was  not  to  blame 

I  am  sure,  if  my  steps  bent  that  way — and  I  claim 

'Twas  but  natural  to  cast  furtive  glances  within 

That  lovely  inclosure.     But  ne'er  did  I  win, 

Since  that  day,  one  glance  from  the  beautiful  eyes. 

No — try  as  I  might,  not  a  look  could  surprise. 

'Tho'  I  saw  her  quite  often — but,  always  her  face 

Was  hidden  beneath  a  broad-brim — but  the  lace 

Encircling  her  throat,  was  in  sight  'neath  the  rim. 

But  Jack,  even  that  rilled  my  cup  to  the  brim. 

Well,  it  went  on  this  way  for  a  year — till  one  eve 

I  attended  a  soiree — quite  grand — Mrs.  Reeve 

Was  the  hostess.     I  stood  near  the  door,  beating  time 

To  the  music  that  floated  about  in  sweet  rhyme, 

And  listlessly  watched  the  rainbow-hued  throng 

That  poured  in.     How  stale  it  all  seemed  ;  before  long 

I  was  sated  with  color,  and  perfume,  and  chaff, 

And  the  insipid  smile,  and  the  soft,  made  up  laugh — 

And  had  almost  decided  to  make  my  adieux, 

"  So  sorry  to  leave — and  the  pleasure  to  lose  " — 


84  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

For  you  see,  Jack,  those  months  had  conspired  to  awake 
A  thirst  that  these  flimsy  world  joys  could  not  slake. 
But,  all  thoughts  of  leaving  in  an  instant  fled  far, 
'Fore  the  vision,  that  burst  on  my  gaze — as  a  star 
Bursts  through  the  blue  vault,  and  enchains  the  rapt  eye 
So  my  vision  was  chained — I  could  scarcely  help  a  cry 
Of  delight — for,  my  friend,  to  be  plain — in  the  door 
Stood  my  fair  Dulcinea — Ask  not  what  she  wore — 
But — you're  laughing,  old  boy — ah,  well,  never  mind 
Just  wait  till  you  feel  it — and  then  you  will  find 
I  have  not  enlarged  on  the  truth.     Well,  I  stayed — 
But,  'tis  no  use  rehearsing  the  progress  I  made 
Suffice  that  I  call  at  her  home — and  the  end 
You  can  guess  without  aid,  for  to-morrow  I  wend 
My  way  to  her  side — and,  if  love  reads  aright 
She  will  not  say  me  nay — and  'fore  this  time  next  night, 
I'll  be,  Jack,  the  happiest  man  in  the  town. 
Her  name,  boy  ?  By  Jove  !  I  forgot — Clara  Brown." 
"  Great  Heavens  !  "  Ned  started,  and  gazed  in  surprise 
At  the  pallid  white  face,  and  the  fierce,  blazing  eyes 
Of  his  friend,  as  he  sprung  from  his  seat,  with  a  bound. 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE.  85 

"  What  ails  you  Jack  Thornton  ?  have  the  wild  witches 

found 

Your  senses  ?  What  means  that  demoniac  yell  ?  " 
"  No  less  savage  way  would  begin,  Ned  to  tell 
The  depth  of  my  sympathy — Your  hand,  Ned,  old  boy  ; 
May  your  life  be  one  season  of  unalloyed  joy  ; 
May  your  wife  never  handle  the  broom  the  wrong  end, 
Nor  missels  like  irons  or  frying  pans  send." 
Jack  suddenly  burst  in  a  light  teasing  laugh 
Echoed  loudly  by  Ned.     ' '  Come  !  Enough  of  your  chaff  ! 
I'm    off."     "  Luck    attend  !     May   the    Fates    turn    the 

wheel 
In  your  favor.     Good   night,   boy — good  luck   in   your 

deal  !  " 

Jack  fastened  the  door  and  returned  to  his  chair 
With  a  look  on  his  face  of  the  saddest  despair. 
"  Oh,  Clara,"  he  murmured,  ''my  darling — must  I 
Relinquish  the  struggle — and  let  all  hope  die  ? 
Oh,  the  fool  that  I've  been  to  imagine  I  e'er 
Could  win  her  from  men  Nature  fashioned  so  fair ! 
Ah,  Ned  !  with  your  supple  young  limbs  and  those  eyes, 


86  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

That  can  melt  into  tenderness,  laugh,  or  look  wise, 

And  that  air  of  unconscious  protection,  and  all, 

Must  have  done  execution,  the  night  of  the  ball. 

What  madness  to  hope  to  be  first  in  the  race 

With  men  like  Ned  Dayton  !     But  I  can  not  face 

His  light-hearted  happiness — no,  I  must  go 

Away  from  it  all,  or,  by  Jove !  well  I  know 

I  should  hate  him!  "  and  rising  he  strode  down  the  room, 

Then  back  to  his  chair — the  bright  face  agloom 

With  the  thought  that  is  hard  for  the  bravest  to  bear 

That  the  one  the  heart  held  as  its  holiest  care 

Has  flow^n.     And  we  look  'round  the  tenantless  room, 

And  shrink  back  in  dread  from  the  silence  and  gloom. 

Dead  to  me !  and  my  best  friend,  Ned  Dayton — Oh,  Ned 

There  are  hundreds  of  girls  you  could  have  in  her  stead. 

Yet,  fool  that  I  am  !  were  she  free,  would  she  take 

My  heart  and  hand.     No  !  this  serves  to  awake 

My  slumbering  senses — we  never  could  be 

Ought  dearer  than  friends — but  she  shall  never  see 

How  the  cruel  wound  bleeds,  for  to-morrow  I'm  off 

To  the  mountains — in  hunting,  this  dead  weight  to  doff 

If  I  can,  yes,  if— but  before,  I  must  say 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE.  87 

Good-bye  to  her — then  for  my  grand  holiday  ? 
Let's  see  what's  the  time?     Eight  o'clock — not  too  late 
To  say  a  few  words — Well,  here  goes  !     Come  ye  Fate  ! 
I  can  baffle  you  now — and  Clara,  dear  one, 
Your  heart  shall  not  ache,  that  I  am  undone." 
Let's  view  him — our  hero — as  standing  before 
The  grate.     It  is  plain  to  the  very  heart's  core 
He  feels  this  new  sorrow — the  sword  has  cut  deep ; 
The  white,  tightened  lips  show  how  hard  'tis  to  keep 
Down  the  passion  that  swells  in  his  breast  like  a  sea 
Lashed  on  by  a  hurricane.     Gladly  and  free, 
Spring  up  the  red  flames  reaching  out  their  long  arms 
And  whispering  low  of  the  Fire  Fiend's  alarms 
Then  cower  and  crouch  in  a  corner,  and  then 
Burst  into  wild  madness — then  cower  again — 
Like  the  love,  hate,  defiance,  and  self-pity  too, 
That  looks  from  his  eyes —though  he  strives  to  subdue. 
"Ah  well !     So  it  be  !     I  am  not  the  sole  one 
Who  is  bidden  his  own  deep  heart  teachings  to  shun," 
And  leaving  the  room,  he  strode  down  the  stair, 
And    out  through   the   night,   till  the  street-lamp's  dull 
glare 


88  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

Grew  dimmer.     On  still,  to  the  flowery  nest 

Surrounding-  the  home  and  the  one  beloved  best. 

He  paused  before  entering-  the  low  wicket  gate. 

Paused  a  moment,  to  let  his  heart  beatings  abate. 

Thus  standing  his  gaze  wrandered  slowly  around 

The  picturesque  garden — the  tree — till  a  sound 

Broke  the   stillness  ;    the   softened   and    low   murmured 

hum 

Of  voices,  low  spoken,  and  seeming  to  come 
From  the  parlor,  close  by — and  his  heart  gave  a  leap— 
"  It  is  Clara,"  he  murmured,  "  one  look  !     I  will  creep 
To  the  window,  and  view  her  bright  head,  bent  low  o'er 
The  book  she  is  reading  to  '  Father,'  before 
I  make  known  my  presence — "  and  scaling  the  wall 
He  crept  to  the  window  and  peeped  in — but  all 
His  bright  pictures  vanished — a  dull  glow  o'erspread 
His  face  slowly  changing  to  ash  gray  instead. 
'Neath  the  gas  stood  a  lady,  robed  wholly  in  white. 
Her  dark  eyes  uplifted  and  bathed  in  the  light, 
Were  met  by  two  more — and  the  small  hand  was  clasped 
In  another— Ned   Dayton's  !     Jack  breathed  thick  and 

fast— 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE.  89 

And  crouching,  he  watched  with  a  fast  beating  heart 

The  two — then  he  sprang  back  a  step  with  a  start — 

Ned  Dayton  had  caught  the  eight  form  to  his  breast 

And  pressed  his  first  kiss  to  her  lips — But  the  rest 

Jack  stayed  not  to  see,  but,  with  long  rapid  strides, 

Disappeared  down  the  walk — on  !  on  !  near  beside 

Himself  in  his  agony,  knowing  not  where 

His  footsteps  were  straying — until  the  red  glare 

Of  the  street-lamps  aroused  him,  and  wending  his  way 

To  his  room,  he  prepared  his  valise.     The  next  day 

The  city  was  minus  Jack  Thornton.     Folks  said 

He  had  "  gone  to  the  mountains  " — and  this  report  led 

To  no  speculation,  except  by  a  few — 

Clara  Brown  and  Ned  Dayton,  of  these,  being  two. 

*£$*$* 

Jack  wandered  about  for  a  good  year  and  more 
Trying,  vainly,  to  drown  all  remembrance  that  bore 
Such  sadness  for  him.     And  one  day  in  his  room 
He  was  smoking  and  musing — enwrapped  in  his  gloom. 
Could  this  be  Jack  Thornton,  whose  once  ringing  laugh 
Was  loudest  and  gayest — whose  light,  teasing  chaff 
Caused  the  gravest  to  smile  ?     What  a  powerful  thing 


QO  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

Is  this  love,  that  subdues,  be  it  peasant  or  king ! 

While  thus  he  was  musing  a  tap  at  the  door 

Came  soft,  but  it  failed  to  arouse  him  ;  the  sore 

Heart  had  not  found  the  relief  that  it  sought, 

And  refused  to  obey  the  injunctions  he  taught. 

Thus  lost  in  his  reverie,  naught  heeded  he 

The  turn  of  the  latch,  nor  as  yet  did  he  see 

The  tall  form  that  softly  approached  him  behind, 

Till  the  words  "Jack>  old  fellow!"   made  known  to  his 

mind 

A  presence.     He  sprang  from  his  chair  with  a  bound — 
His  eyes  fiercely  blazing,  and  teeth  tightly  ground 
Together.     Recovering  himself  with  a  start, 
He  offered  his  hand,  and  a  chair — for  his  part 
He  must  play,  to  defraud  the  cold  world's  cruel  eye 
Of  the  sight  of  his  anguish.     Not  one  broken  sigh 
Should  it  hear.     "  Well,  old  boy!  too  late,  I  suppose 
For  well  wishes.     No  doubt,  by  this  time,  it  all  grows 
Monotonous — greetings,  best  wishes  and  all, 
And  how  is  your  wife  ?     Or  does  that  question  pall 
Already  ?     "  My  wife  is  quite  well,  thank  you  Jack. 
She  is  longing  to  see  you — and  you're  to  go  back 


JACK    THORNTONS    MISTAKE.  91 

On  a  visit,  my  friend.     Marie  surely  would  make 

My  life  a  long"  torment — should  I  fail  to  take 

You  back  home  with  me."     "  Marie  ?     Why  do  you  call 

Her  that,  Ned  ?  "     "  Why,  Jack,  you  are  crazy  and  all  ? 

'Tis  her  name — What  else  should  I  call  her,  my  boy  ? 

I've  exhausted  the  lists  of  '  my  pride '  and  '  my  joy  '  — 

Long  since."     "  But,  good  Heavens  !  her  name  'fore  she 

wed, 

You  told  me  was  Clara — I'm  sure  that  you  said 
It  was.     Don't  act  like  a  fool — What's  the  row  ? 
Say,  what  are  you  laughing  so  wildly  at  now  ?  " 
Jack  glared  at  his  friend,  half  believing  his  mirth 
Was  because  he'd  discovered  how  little  was  worth 
All  else  to  Jack  Thornton,  now  Clara  was  gone — 
And  his  teeth   clenched,   in  thinking  how  plainly  he'd 

worn 

His  heart  on  his  sleeve.     "  Come,  Jack,  boy,  don't  act 
In  that  tragic  way.     Don't  !     I'll  tell  you — the  fact 
Of  the  case  is :     I  did  ask  Miss  Clara,  but  she, 
Quite  foreign  to  all  I  had  hoped,  refused  me. 
Well,  Jack,  at  the  moment  I  thought  my  heart  broke 
And,  clasping  her  wildly,  I  ravingly  spoke 


92  JACK    THORNTON  S    MISTAKE. 

Rapid  words  of  mad  love,  and  I  swore  that  I  would 
Ne'er  relinquish  her ;  for — I  was  stung — in  the  mood 
For  rash  vows.     But  not  six  months  from  then  at  the 

Lakes 

I  met  a  most  beautiful  girl — Marie  Drakes. 
But  the  rest  you  now  know,  and  we  have  been  wed 
For  two  months.     Miss  Clara  is  buried  and  dead 
For  aught  that  she  enters  my  thoughts.     Well,  old  man, 
You'll  come  back  with  me  ?     We'll  do  all  that  we  can 
To  make  your  stay  pleasant — good-bye  for  to-day 
To-morrow  we  leave — Come  prepared  for  a  stay." 
But  the  door  had  scarce  closed  on  his  friend  ere  the  key 
He  had  turned — Shot  the  bolt,  and  was  clown  on   one 

knee 

'Fore  his  bureau  and  trunk,  with  his  big  valise  out, 
And  began,  in  man  fashion,  to  toss  things  about. 
"  The  train  leaves  at  four — and  'tis  ten  minutes  walk 
To  the  station,  from  here — there's  no  time  for  talk — 
It  is  three  o'clock  now — There !  I  guess  that  will  do. 
Now  my  overcoat,  ulster,  cigars,  one  or  two, 
And  now  I  am  ready — Good-bye  to  the  hills, 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE.  93 

To  the  pines,  and  the  woods  and  the  murmuring  rills. 

Oh,  Clara — dear  heart !  I  shall  see  you  again, 

And  forget,  in  your  presence,  this  past  year  of  pain. 

We  can  never  be  more  than  just  friends,  that  I  know, 

But  we  used  to  be  that  in  the  days  long  ago. 

When  you  called  me  '  Old  Jack '  and  teased  me  till  I 

Was  forced  to  hit  back,  and  at  last  you  would  cry 

For  '  quits  ' — there's  the  whistle.     Ye  hills,  once  again 

I  bid  ye  farewell !  "  and  he  sprang  on  the  train. 

That  night  found  our  hero  once  more  on  his  way 

To  the  cottage,  and  wondering  what  he  would  say 

In  excuse  for  his  absence ;  just  then  shone  the  light 

In  the  window,  Jack  leaped  o'er  the  fence  at  the  sight 

And  crept  to  the  casement,  peeped  in,  no  one  there 

But  Clara,  intent  on  her  book — her  bright  hair 

Falling  over  the  hand  that  supported  her  head 

And   her  great   eyes   all    dark   with    the    words    as   she 

read. 

Jack  stealthily  mounted  the  steps — tried  the  latch. 
Ah,  good !  'tis  not  fastened — and  now  but  to  catch 
Miss  Clara,  before  she  has  seen  him — and  see 


94  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

Her  start  of  surprise — then  her  innocent  glee 

To  welcome  the  truant.     Jack  opened  the  doorr 

And  softly  approached  her,  a  board  of  the  floor 

Betrayed  him  by  creaking  beneath  his  light  tread, 

And  Clara  had  lifted  her  sunny-crowned  head. 

For  a  moment  the  dark  eyes  grew  large  with  affright, 

And  she  half  started  up,  as  if  ready  for  flight. 

But,  turning,  she  fled  to  his  arms  like  a  dove 

Will  flee  to  its  mate.     "  Jack  !  Jack  !  here  above 

The   earth!     I    thought   you    were   dead,    and  —  and  — 

.and"- 

The  sobs  choked  her  voice,  and  unable  to  stand 
The  look  in  his  eyes,  she  sank  down  to  the  floor, 
With  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her  hair  falling  o'er 
The  small,  slender  hand — and  the  sobs  shook  her  frame 
In   their   power,    like  a  reed  —  All   the  while  'twas  his 

name 

She  murmured.     His  heart  beat  so  wildly  and  loud 
He  could  hear  its  mad  throbbings — then  tenderly  bowed 
His  head  over  hers — parted  back  the  bright  veil — 
The  surprise,  scarce  believed,  turned  his  face  ashy  pale, 
But  she  sprung  from  the  floor,  with  a  low  cry  of  shame, 


JACK    THORNTON  S    MISTAKE.  95 

"  Oh,  Jack,  'tis  because  you  so  suddenly  came 

Upon  me.     Now,  truant  !  and  where  have  you  been  !  " 

And  she  laughed,  trying  vainly  her  spirits  to  win 

Back  again — but  Jack's  eyes  had  been  opened  too  wide 

To  be  closed  very  easily.     "  Put  that  aside 

For  the  present.     I'll  tell  by  and  by,  Clara  dear, 

Do  you  know  why  I've  stayed  from  your  side  all  this 

year? 

To  try  to  forget  your  sweet  face,  but — no  use — 
The  boy  with  the  arrows  resents  all  abuse. 
So    I'm    here"    —But   enough!      Neither    you    would, 

nor  I 

Thank  reporters,  if  into  such  scenes  they  should  pry 
So  we  draw  down  the  curtain,  and  after  an  hour, 
Feel  safe  in  again  stepping  into  "  Love's  Bower." 
"  But,  why  did  you  try  to  forget  me  ?     Say,  Jack," 
She  pouted — "  and  if  so,  what  made  you  come  back  ?  " 
Then   he  told   her  it  all  —  how  he  thought  she  would 

wed 

Ned  Dayton.     "  Oh,  Jack,  what  a  stupid  old  head 
Yours  is,  to  be  sure !     Had  it  not  been  for — well 
Somebody,  you  know — oh,  I  never  shall  tell  ? — 


96  JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 

I  might  have — but — Jack,  you  don't  half  deserve 
To  be  happy,  to  fly  off  like  that — I  should  serve 
You  right,  if  I  took  back  each  word  I  have  said, 
And  then — well,  it  wouldn't  be  me  you  would  wed. 
You — ' '  but  for  some  reason,  best  known  to  the  two, 
The  sentence  was  cut  off  quite  short  at  the  "  you." 
"  Oh,  Clara,"  Jack's  eyes  grew  round  with  affright, 
"I    must   go   by   to-night's    train,   straight   back  —  yes, 

to-night, 

I've  promised  Ned  Dayton  to  meet  his  young  wife 
To-morrow.     By  Jove  !  I  would  not  for  my  life, 
Have  him  know  this  and  so  I  must  leave  in  an  hour 
But,    I'll   bear   it  —  there'll   be    no   dark   cloud    now  to 

lower — 

I  can  face  Him — Ned  Dayton — to-morrow  I  guess 
With   as   glad    eyes    as    his.     But   time's    up !     Heaven 

bless 

This  sweet  face  !     Good-bye,  love — One  more,  only  one, 
Dear  heart  !     Come,  please  Clara — and  then  I  am  done. 
There !     I'm  off  to  Ned  Dayton.     I  wish  he  were  here 
To  save  me  this  journey  away  from  you,  dear." 


JACK    THORNTON  S    MISTAKE.  97 

"No  cause  for  the  journey,  old  boy!     Thought  you'd 

need 

My  presence — so  followed  you  here  with  all  speed." 
And,  in  through  the  window  a  mischievous  head 
Crowned    with    dark,    curling    locks,    thrust    itself,    but 

instead 

Of  relief,  one  would  think  Jack  was  facing  his  doom. 
And,    with    one   frightened   look,    Clara   fled    from    the 

room. 

"  Well,  Jack,  boy  !     So  this  is  the  meaning  of  all 
The  months  you  have  hidden  away  from  our  call ! 
You  must  have  thought,  man — I  was  greener  than  green 
When  I  told  you  of  Clara,  not  then  to  have  seen 
How  dear  was  her  name — But  I  chose  to  ignore 
It  all,  then — when  I  too  bowed  down  to  adore 
Your  idol.     Enough  !  it  is  late,  we  must  go. 
I'm  off  to  my  wife.     Jack,  I  swear  that  I  know 
No  more  than  a  baby  of  aught  you  have  said  — 
I  had  just  reached  the  place,  when  I  thrust  in  my  head. 
Good  night,  boy — I  wish  you  all  joy — may  your  wife 
Never  scold  more  than  mine — and  no  happier  life, 


98 


JACK  THORNTON'S  MISTAKE. 


My  friend  can  I  wish  you  —  good  night  —  I  appeal 

To  your  own  words,  some  time  since,   '  '  Good  luck  in 


your  deal." 


[UNIVERSITY; 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


